


Guilty Pleasures

by Cody_Thomas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Casefic (gods help me), Fluff and Angst, John Watson Is A BAMF, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mindfuck, Mycroft IS Big Brother, Prompt Fic, Rough Sex, SQUICK WARNING, Schmoop induced by outside influences, Sherlock can be a clueless ass, This One Time... On The Kink Meme..., descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cody_Thomas/pseuds/Cody_Thomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, sometimes John gets a bit frustrated. Sometimes, Sherlock just pushes one too many buttons and John can't quite handle it. Sometimes, he loses his temper. And...well, sometimes John maybe takes that frustration out on Sherlock when they have sex.</p><p>Sometimes, there are deep, dark bruises left on Sherlock's hips and thighs and shoulders and arms, ones that linger for far too long. Sometimes, Sherlock walks with a bit of a limp for a day or two afterwards and winces a bit when he sits. Sometimes there's a bubble of guilt that swells in John's chest, growing larger and larger each time it happens, each time Sherlock forgives him, and each time John swears he'll never do anything so horrid again.</p><p>But the thing is, Sherlock likes it. Not the bruises or the pain - both of which are inconsequential and highly exaggerated on Sherlock's part. No, what Sherlock likes is the after-effect. The way John dotes on him in his guilt, how tenderly John treats him, as if he'd break at the slightest touch, and how loving John is with him in every action, every word - it's all so splendid.</p><p>A prompt fill from the SherlockBBC LJ kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm basically cleaning up and polishing the fill I started on LJ and also continuing it here since that post is very near full. I will be finishing this fic no matter HOW much writers block tries to get in my way! *stocks up on dynamite.* Updates will be sporadic, I am warning you now, and the POV changes each chapter, because that's how it happened, deal with it. ^_^

He doesn't even remember when it started happening, when things had... shifted so greatly. John had never thought he would be like this. He was a doctor for chrissakes he helps people, heals them, and yet somehow, he has no idea when, this great dark beast started rising up inside of him, a beast that willingly and intentionally hurts someone he cares about so deeply.

 

There's never really a warning of what will set it off, but Sherlock is extremely proficient at provoking it sometimes. All it can take is a small phrase, or a look, something in the eyes that makes the pressure start in his chest, the anger start to well up inside of his gut, until with one more word from those lips, or one last glance of disinterest or uncaring dismissal from those ice blue eyes, and the next thing he knows he's pinning Sherlock to the closest available surface. Walls, table, floor, bent over the sharp angle of the couch, it doesn't matter. He claws at the man, tearing away those perfectly tailored clothes, biting at his neck and lips instead of kissing them, digging in with fingers and nails and refusing to stop until that look has shifted, until there is feeling in those depths, until Sherlock's impenetrable and unaffected mask is completely shattered, flushed and panting, and is biting his lips so hard that he's bleeding, and even then he doesn't stop.

 

John never stops until this proud, cold, brilliant man is impaled on his shaft, writhing and whimpering as John slams his hips home and bites harshly into the junction of his shoulder or arm, anything he can reach, hard enough to taste blood. He doesn't stop until he knows that Sherlock has been made to feel it, him, something, anything... until Sherlock screams. That's when he cums. He ALWAYS cums when Sherlock screams like that, when his body is covered in marks, his wrists or hips or throat bruised from John gripping them, clothes disheveled or ripped and still uselessly clinging to those impossibly long limbs, and his eyes, if he can see them, filled with pain. Gods what kind of monster is he?

 

John winces at the deep reddish-purple marks around Sherlock's waist, his thumbs had been digging hard into Sherlocks' kidneys near the end of this latest encounter, and feels bile rise in his throat right as the guilt comes crashing down on him. Face first over the coffee table this time, there's blood on Sherlock's shoulder, along with a perfect oval of teeth indents, each one vividly visible. He hadn't used enough preparation or lube either, the bottle hidden between the couch cushions had been near empty, and he hadn't bothered with wasting time to find more. He doesn't want to know how much damage he's caused this time.

 

Sherlock is quiet and doesn't make eye contact as he pushes himself up after John has backed away and begins to straighten his clothes as best he can.

 

John had been slamming Sherlock's hips into the harsh edge of the table without care, there was a red indented mark there that he sees before it's covered by fine tailored trousers.

 

Sherlock's cheek had struck against the edge of a mug in John's careless haste to push him over the table. Sherlock hadn't been fully able to brace or protect himself at first because John had wrenched his arm up behind his back before he did it. There is a deep crescent-shaped mark on Sherlock's cheek, it will bruise, John can tell already. A mark that can't be hidden, or covered up so that no one will notice, a reminder of the beast that John can't deny or forget about when Sherlock is completely covered in several layers of clothing even in the heat of summer. John feels sick.

 

"I'm sorry." He murmurs, and the words feel so completely inadequate to describe the feeling of utter regret he has, no matter how much he means it. Sherlock says nothing, doesn't even look at him or pretend he heard as he haltingly stands up with a slight hiss of pain as he holds his shoulder and slowly walks to the bathroom, trying to hide the slight limp in his step as he makes his way, before quietly shutting himself inside. John feels like his heart has been ripped out of his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinkmeme fill. Sherlock provokes John into rough, angry sex, which John believes is at least borderline abusive, so that Sherlock can bask in the attentions of guilty!John.

In the bathroom, Sherlock removes his clothes entirely and takes stock. Pressure abrasions around his wrists, more so on the right when John had immobilized his dominant hand behind his back, it would bruise on the inner wrist, easily covered with long sleeve shirts an inch longer than he usually wore them. Left shoulder, strained from wrenching, be easy on it the next few days. Another pressure mark on the back of his neck from John's forearm to hold him down, insignificant, it would disappear in the next few hours. Bite mark on the back left shoulder, broken skin and bruising, disinfectant and a bandage, invisible under a darker shirt. Several marks on the pelvis and hips from the table edge and John's hands, most would bruise, wear trousers with a slightly higher waistline so they aren't irritated. Bruises already forming on kidney marks, sleep on side or stomach the next few days just in case. Anal discomfort from friction and hard penetration, ointment, briefs, and some paracetamol tablets. And finally, crescent-shaped mark on his left cheek from the blasted mug. Definite bruise, dark purple and red abrasion, small cut but not truly bleeding, already swollen. Annoying, hard to hide, possibly a plaster, wearing hair a bit more forward, maybe even makeup. Annoying. All in all he's had it worse, but the ones he has are still going to be noticeable over the next few days.

 

He runs a hot shower, lets the heat of the water help soak away the ache in his arm, lower back, and hips. When he finishes he dries himself and tucks the towel around his hips before making his way gingerly to his room for some clean clothes. When he opens the door, John is waiting for him on his bed, he knows John saw him flinch and grip his towel tighter, as if it could protect him. With sad, almost destroyed eyes John holds up the first aid kit.

 

"I just want to take care of that shoulder, you'll have a time of it yourself."

 

Sherlock doesn't resist or argue, or even put up a token protest. He gingerly sits at the corner of the bed and leans forward a bit so that John can easily reach the wound. He can't stop the hiss as the cold burn of the antiseptic feels like it stabs into the exposed tissues. The smooth, soothing ointment is next, and Sherlock whimpers in relief after the pain from the antiseptic. Finally a gauze bandage that is expertly held in place by an eight sided frame of waterproof medical tape. John knows how much he moves around normally and made sure that it will stay put. John's hand is not leaving his shoulder.

 

Sherlock bows his head when he feels John's lips press between his shoulder blades in a tender kiss. If people really could 'kiss it all better' Sherlock wouldn't have a mark left on him anywhere the second John's lips pulled away. The marks he can still easily see on his wrists however attest to this not being the case. This is when Sherlock feels a lump in his throat, and a burning sensation behind his eyes, but he doesn't cry, he absolutely refuses to. That would destroy John for good.

 

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I am so, so sorry."

 

"I know." 

 

The first words he's spoken since the encounter began, and Sherlock knows it's true. He knows John loves him, he knows John is sorry, and he knows that no matter the bruises attesting otherwise, John is not an abuser. He's known abusers of every type; physical, mental, sexual; criminals of the lowest sort, they get into their victims heads, twist things around, and press all the blame back on the victims, making them afraid to fight back or speak up so the abuse can continue in a never ending cycle. Not his John. Never his brave doctor. There is no transfer of blame, there is no mind games or false pretenses. No matter what happens when Sherlock manages to hit the buttons just right, John willingly takes full responsibility for his own actions and soldiers through the fallout and guilt with all the single mindedness of his position.

 

John stands up and pretends he doesn't notice Sherlock take a plaster, paracetamol, and the tube of zinc diaper rash cream (which is far gentler than the hemorrhoid ointment), before he closes the first aid kit and steps out of the room.

 

Sherlock applies the plaster, then swallows the tablets before applying the ointment and putting on briefs and pajamas, very much not in the mood to do anything the rest of the day that would require going out or interacting with other people. He curls into the covers and decides on a nap. It's an hour or two later when he wakes up, puts on his dressing gown and slippers, and emerges from his room in search of tea and whatever food he can smell cooking, only to find a guilty eyed John setting down a cup of tea just the way he likes it, and two plates of chicken, potatoes, and peas.

 

He smiles a bit at the sight of food, but that doesn't stop the wince when he sits down on the hard bar stool. Dinner is eaten in silence, it's always quiet for about the first twelve hours after one of these 'episodes'. John doesn't know what to say, and Sherlock doesn't want to talk. He has three cups of tea, knowing full well it will make him have a hard time sleeping tonight, in fact he's counting on it. John does the dishes without preamble, more to give himself something to do than anything else.

 

But Sherlock just can't resist poking open wounds. Because he doesn't want to wait, he wants it now. 

 

"Why? What did I do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of the 3-4 I will be uploading before allowing myself to crash tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

John drops the plate he's washing back into the sink, but it thankfully doesn't break, even though he winces at the sound. Those words, sounding so puzzled, go right through him. If the world's only consulting detective, one of the most observant people on the planet can't come up with any sort of reasonable explanation for his actions, then what kind of defense could he possibly offer? He grips the edge of the sink in frustration.

 

"I don't know Sherlock. Damnit, I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry, but I just don't know. I don't know why I did it. Would you like me to go, stay somewhere else? I don't want you feeling uncomfortable. You don't need to be afraid in your own home, I... Christ, I'm Sorry."

 

Dishes forgotten, he turns towards the man whose eyes he can't bring himself to meet right now.

 

He doesn't know what he'll do if Sherlock says 'yes', maybe stay at a bedsit or a hostel, but at the same time he hopes that Sherlock does kick him out, that the man will start protecting himself, defending himself against this monster that obviously John has no control of, and no idea how to fight, a monster John wants to rip apart with his bare hands. He'd die for Sherlock, nearly has several times. Heck he killed for Sherlock within two days of knowing the man, and now after two years, something inside of himself wants to destroy what he wants to protect. To literally be at war with yourself, he wonders if this is how it feels to go mad.

 

"No, you don't have to go anywhere. I'm not afraid of you." His companion says gently, and while the words warm his heart, they also sink like a stone in his gut, because it means Sherlock still won't fight this, won't fight him even though he should, and that kills him. Because John knows he's not strong enough to walk away, even though he knows he should, that the best way to protect Sherlock right now is to stay as far away as he can get, but he can't. He has been inextricably trapped in the web known as Sherlock Holmes since day one, and he can no more fight that fact than he can fight against gravity. Unless Sherlock cuts him free, he's stuck.

 

"I'm afraid of myself." John admits, even though he doesn't want to, and then his heart is shattered anew as his beautiful Sherlock, the one he hurt, and forced, and practically raped holds out his hand to him. 

 

_'NO!'_ John's mind screams, _'Don't forgive me, don't you dare let this one slide! I saw your cheek, hips, and shoulder! I nearly ripped your arm out of the socket, I fucked you until you almost **bled** so don't you dare-'_

 

"I don't want you to go. Please John."

 

And John breaks, he gives in just like he always does. He takes that hand and is pulled towards his pale eyed lover and wraps his arms around the one he hurt. It's when Sherlock's arms wrap around his waist and pull him closer that John begs the beast inside him, whatever it is, to tear into him instead, or the rest of the world, anyone else. It can maim and kill every criminal they come across without impunity or hesitation, but this, this one person, his Sherlock, don't hurt him again please, please just let him be.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The arms are warm and safe and absolutely glorious around his shoulders. Sherlock buries his face into John's jumper and just breathes in the man's scent. This is it, this is what he loves most about his Noble Soldier, when the warmth from his hands and arms seeps through into his skin and he is surrounded with the scent of John. When he can feel all of that strength contained in a frame that shouldn't be able to hold a fraction of it, and that strength is holding onto him, it makes Sherlock feel invincible.

When John's entire focus is on him, it becomes his drug, and he can't ever get enough of John. He knows he can't, and he doesn't want to. Maybe this is love, maybe this is the madness that poets and lovers have written about for millenia that he always used to scoff at. If it is, then he's okay with it, he understands, he finally knows WHY it can drive people mad, or sane, or both at the same time and they accept it. He wouldn't mind it either if it means he gets to keep this.

"Do you still love me John?" And he knows the answer, of course he knows the answer. John is an open book, who has always worn his heart on his sleeve, but still, there is something about the man saying it that he can never hear enough of. Those fingers card through his hair, gently massaging his scalp, and warm lips press against the top of his head as his John holds him tight.

"Yes." John murmurs against his hair, "Yes I do." The words filled with such certainty that there isn't room for an atom of doubt.

"Show me." He says, and knows that John will not refuse him.

Sherlock is led, gently and without rush, back to his bedroom. John lays him out on the bed like a priceless treasure and feathers kisses all along his forehead and face, and Sherlock wastes no time in unbuttoning his shirt so he can be touched more. Fingers and lips, both incredibly tender and worshipful, travel over every new expanse of flesh revealed. If he could melt, Sherlock knows he'd be doing it now. He's held close and wrapped up in all of John's attention and affection and... and he just wants more of it, all of it, he never wants it to stop, because this, this is a fix that won't kill him, or run out, or leave him a twitching mess wracked in the pains of withdrawal. This is a drug that makes him more, makes him better, makes him strive to try, to want to be something even better than what he is, to become someone who glows just as brightly as John glows. Sherlock has always been an addict, and John is a drug he refuses to fight. The man gives him a high that nothing else compares to, and he's never going to let it go.

It's no wonder he gets aroused, it's John, of course he does. And Sherlock guides John's hand down to palm him through his pajama bottoms. The man is hesitant for all of two seconds before he slips his hand inside and takes what Sherlock wants him to have. Neither of them even notice that the first sound Sherlock makes is actually one of pain from his bruised hips being touched. Warmth and strength and John are wrapped around him and yes it's so glorious, wonderful, perfect, there aren't enough adjectives in the world to describe it.

He doesn't even notice until pain mixes with the pleasure and somehow makes it even better, that John is kissing and licking at the marks on his hips and Sherlock arches, head spinning. It takes ages for John to literally cover every inch of his body with tender strokes and gentle lips, and by the end of it Sherlock is so close to crying that he's had to cover his eyes with the crook of his arm. There isn't a spot on him that hasn't been absolutely loved by John, and he's hard as marble and yet even as John takes his cock into that skillful hand and with a few strokes has Sherlock cumming so hard the edges of his vision blank out, cumming isn't the best part.

In fact it barely compares to the feeling of being drained of all his energy, all his will, and even his thoughts are completely silent for a few blessed moments. It's at the point when Sherlock knows that John understands he is completely, absolutely, and totally helpless before him, and John, with a few words could do anything to him, could break past all of his barriers, destroy him utterly, could change him however it suited him to do so and Sherlock would never be able to protest once it's done, that's when John, his Noble Soldier, pulls him back up into his arms, holds him against his chest, and wraps the duvet around both of them tightly.

No abuser in the world would pass up that kind of opportunity, and it's just further proof of his belief in John when the Brave Doctor just holds him, cards his fingers through his hair, and doesn't speak, merely places a few kisses against his hair. John says nothing, does nothing, until Sherlock is in control of himself once more. That's the best part, when he knows utterly and without the slightest doubt, that John cares for him exactly as he is, and that even when given the power to do so, there is nothing he would truly change about Sherlock. There is no force on earth strong enough to make him give this up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally combined chapters 3 and 4 before, so I separated them, sorry for any confusion.

When Sherlock holds onto him just that much tighter, when John can practically feel the man's thoughts start up in his head again, part of him wants to breathe a sigh of relief. It isn't natural to see Sherlock so still, to be able to look into his eyes and not have to try and wade through a constant storm of unending thoughts before finding and catching hold of whatever it is that the man is focusing on now.

Seeing straight through Sherlock, and to find him as fragile as a butterfly's wing or a snowflake, where to even touch it would destroy it, yet Sherlock's eyes telling him he could, if he wanted to, is a power John really doesn't want to possess. Especially not with the dark beast lingering somewhere nearby, because it would absolutely destroy this, ruin Sherlock and therefore John forever. No, John could never claim the fragile vulnerability Sherlock shows him.

Instead he brings Sherlock close, holds him tight, trying to let him know 'I will protect that however I can. I won't let anyone destroy the precious thing you just trusted me with, I'll even find a way to defend you from myself if I have to.' and Sherlock breathing gently as he rests his head on John's chest, seems to say 'alright' and John has no idea what to do with that level of trust, especially when he doesn't feel like he deserves any of it.

Still not wanting to talk, or really move at all, they both drift off, thinking it will only be for a few moments, but both fall deep into dreams. They are roused about six in the morning with both of their mobiles going off like crazy with texts and calls alike at the same time. There's only one thing that can possibly mean and Sherlocks' eyes snap wide open and the hunger of the chase fills them as he goes for his phone on the bedside table. John can't blame the man, it's been nearly two weeks since their last case and the man has been insufferable in the interim.

John fetches his own phone out of his trousers, and sees he has a voicemail from Lestrade as he heads to the bathroom to do a quick wash up. "Twenty five people discovered dead with no immediate signs pointing directly to either murder or mass suicide. All of them died at approximately the exact same time, many of them in obvious pain, some accompanied by seizures. I need answers fast because the media found out about this one before we did, a reporter's kid discovered the bodies and they walked all over the place and probably took pictures before they phoned the police. I've sent an officer that will be there in ten and Sherlock doesn't get to argue it this time. Please make sure he's decent, this is already a media nightmare on its own without him deciding to show up in a ninja suit again. And if anyone asks about the photos of him covered in blood and wielding a harpoon, please say no comment."

Sherlock was already digging through his closet when John returned and started putting his pants and trousers back on. "What did yours say?" He asks as he starts pulling his trousers up over his hips.

" 'Twenty-five dead of either mass murder or mass suicide, need your help', and I stopped listening to his desperate rambling after that. The murderer certainly isn't withdrawn in the least and it's nowhere near their first kill. Possibly a serial killer, more likely a psychopath if there is no obvious connection between the victims. Unless they are the type of psycho who goes into a crowded place shooting, no one gets that high of a kill number on their first go unless their preferred method is in causing major accidents, and that is not the case here. Killers of this level have to develop a real taste for killing, work out all the kinks, before planning and pulling off something of this magnitude. He also would only do something this attention grabbing if his earlier kills had gone completely unnoticed and were logged as natural deaths, so a murder weapon that can pass for natural causes either just on the surface or completely, and I can think of thirty-six ways that could happen right off the top of my head. He would also have at least two armed accomplices because one man overpowering, abducting, and transporting twenty-five people on his own? That would be risky, highly risky, even if he drugged them, and especially if he kept them somewhere busy enough for the bodies to be found so quickly. No obvious signs, unless Lestrade's people are even more moronic than even I gave them credit for, means they weren't restrained. No ligature marks on the wrists, no tape on the mouths or signs of being gagged. Twenty-five people held against their will without being tied down in an at least semi-public place against one man holding one gun? No, especially not when he went to get more victims because you can't transport that many people at once without drawing some sort of attention. He wouldn't be able to control them. So there had to be controllers."

"Unless they trusted him for some reason. Could it be some kind of cult's mass suicide?"

"So few people, away from their compound, without an astronomical event, note, video, any sign of connection, or the signs of a suicide ritual? John do try to keep up."

"Well for the parts you tuned out there's going to be press there, they apparently found the bodies before informing police and took advantage of their luck, and most likely tainted the crime scene horribly in the process. Lestrade is sending a car, no arguments, and begging you to please not make a spectacle of yourself, and that we are denying the harpoon photos of you are actually you at all apparently."

"Oh tedious. Really, it wasn't like I actually killed anyone, the pig was already dead, I don't see what all the fuss is about."

"Gossip and sensationalism Sherlock, the press and public are addicted to it and you tend to amply provide them with both. Talking about it only makes it last longer, even if it's just to deny it."

He couldn't see it, but John knew that Sherlock was rolling his eyes in annoyance. He knew that Sherlock was already in 'Consulting Detective Mode' and that last nights episode was the absolute last thing on his mind right now, but John couldn't switch over his brain so easily. He was a doctor first and foremost and then he was an Army Doctor after that. He wanted to ask if the man was alright, if... if he was in pain or not because he had a small stash of painkillers left over from their repeated trips to the A&E. They were quite a bit stronger than paracetamol, and he kept them locked up and hidden so Sherlock wouldn't become tempted and wind up taking them all in a fit of boredom, but he didn't know how to ask. The peace was so tenuous, the incident so new. It didn't usually happen this fast. Sherlock normally didn't get up the nerve to say anything to him the first few days, and avoided his presence except when absolutely necessary. John didn't know if the switch was because Sherlock genuinely didn't fear him and was just in an extremely forgiving mood, or worse, he was becoming acclimated and adjusted to the situation. John sincerely hoped it was the first one.

Sherlock emerged with a pile of clothes in his arm, and made his own visit to the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later with his hair combed, and wearing a white shirt and a dark suit that made him look even slimmer than he usually did. John could never figure it out, but something about the cut also made him look more intelligent somehow. It was actually one of John's favorite suits on Sherlock, and even though he had never said a word about it to the man, he had a feeling that Sherlock most likely knew anyway.

He must have been staring because when he looked up Sherlock was staring at him hard, studying, observing, seeing more than should be possible. He still winced at the plaster on Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, do you... I mean are you... bollocks... I can get you-"

"Thank you John, but no. While stronger painkillers would help me one way, they also have the extremely annoying side effects of making me very uncoordinated and knocking me out for hours, especially opiates like hydrocodone and codine. They also slow my thought processes down considerably, which would not be beneficial to either of us right now. Perhaps later tonight before bed if I still need them."

And noticeably slower than Sherlock's usual flourishing trot through the door, but far faster than he had been moving last night, he leaves the room with his 'Consulting Detective' game face on and having determined the physical needs and desires of his body to be absolutely inconsequential for anything less than a bullet wound or a major broken bone until after the case was solved.

John sighed and made sure he had everything he needed; keys, wallet, cash for cabs, then grabbed two clips of ammunition, loaded, checked, and put his Sig into the shoulder holster Mycroft had given him for Christmas.

Mycroft had given him the holster already loaded with his own gun freshly cleaned, serviced, with a newly engraved placard on the butt, and, John suspected, the barrel either replaced or re-drilled in order for any previous ballistics reports to never be able to be linked to it. There had also been a license to carry firearms, and a freshly printed set of papers and pair of shoulder crowns declaring him reinstated on full active duty in Her Majesties Royal Army, this time as Major John H. Watson working as an international military liaison with Scotland Yard. His permanent standing orders signed personally by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, as well as the Chief of the Defense Staff, General Sir David Julian Richards, and the Vice Chief of the Defense Staff, General Sir Nicholas Houghton, were to protect and defend one Sir Sherlock Holmes, Earl of Essex, above all other orders should the need arise, using whatever means and force necessary to do so, in this and all other Thirteen Territories without fear of legal reprisal if used on Sherlock's behalf. Lestrade had near flipped his lid when he'd seen it and no wonder, John now had more authority behind him than the entire chain of command of the police forces of the entire British Nation combined as far as it pertained to Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't seemed to comprehend the severity of the moment, and John had been speechless. Mycroft had literally given John a license to kill. John had the letter framed and it now hung in his bedroom.

Having learned not to put anything past Mycroft, John had truly been more shocked at learning Sherlock was an Earl. He had known about the knighthood, Mycroft had been threatening Sherlock with a second one for as long as he had known him, but gentry, somehow that surprised him.

_"The Holmes family have been landed gentry for several generations Major Watson, and due to our family's familial traits of either above average intelligence, disdain for peacockery, or ability to manage money and investments properly, the Holmes manor in Essex is one of the few stately homes in existence today that has managed to retain all of its historical lands and properties in the same family. Our eldest brother Sherringford lives there now with his family, though in truth the home belongs to all of us. Rural places disagree with me however, I am far more inclined to the city, and haven't been there since I went off to University. You should both go there on holiday sometime, Sherringford has been quite keen to meet you. Sherlock was very fond of the place when he was younger as I recall. He swore he was going to live there forever and what did you call it, 'have a bee farm'?"_

John snickered remembering the look of outrage and affrontation on Sherlock's face at that. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door, Sherlock already at the bottom of the stairs and kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek as usual.

"You better not be trying to butter me up because there are more holes in my walls Sherlock."

"There's finally a case, Mrs. Hudson, and I can only hope that it isn't boring."

"Well it's good for you to get out of the house a bit, you've been driving poor John spare up there! Did you two patch up your little domestic?"

Sherlock glanced up the stairs where John was coming down.

"Perhaps. What do you think John? Did we kiss and make up?"

John could only blush, but before he could answer the ringer buzzed. He had never been so glad to hear the bell in his life. An officer they had briefly met only a few times whose name he didn't quite remember, Harris or Hartford or something like that, stood waiting to escort them to the crime scene. Sherlock was less than thrilled to ride in a police car, but was less vocal about it since John was sitting in the back with him, and (Harcourt!) turned on the lights and sped them through the streets of London.

"Well Lestrade certainly 'as 'is knickers in a twist, you should have seen 'im snapping orders, practically threw me keys at me 'ead when 'e told me to come and fetch you with lights on and not stop unless I didn't want me job anymore! Wouldn't 'appen to know what's gotten 'im so worked up would you? 'is face was plumb purple, and that's not like 'im a 'tall." Harcourt said, making eye contact through the rearview mirror.

"We know about as much as you do," John replied, since Sherlock had rolled his eyes and begun staring out the window. "He just texted and told us to be ready in ten minutes and to expect a media circus, nothing else." John could immediately feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him, knowing that he was lying and almost ready to call him on it, but John figured if Lestrade hadn't told him, there was a reason for it, and he wasn't going to put the man in any fouler of a mood than he seemed to be in already.

Sherlock probably knew exactly where they were when they arrived, but John had lost track some 20 minutes previous. Harcourt had turned off the lights a good 2 minutes before then, and sure enough, a large crowd of reporters was waiting at the barrier.

"Lestrade says t' use the curtain before we go in."

Sherlock immediately grabbed for something under the seat and handed two rolls of thick black fabric to John, before adhering his own edge to some velcro on the roof of the vehicle John hadn't even noticed, and letting the curtain roll down to cover the window, then continuing with the rear window. John followed suit and covered his own window and the partition between the front and back seats. they were in a dark cocoon, but a multitude of flash bulbs still tried to make their way through. John took hold of Sherlock's hand, just because he knew how much the excessive press bothered him. It was extremely hard to be any kind of detective if everyone knew who you were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 should be up around Monday or Tuesday when I am on self prescribe bedrest after my company leaves, because I will no doubt be broken, and what better way to recover?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's officially a case fic now, god help me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or I woke up earlier than I had thought I would and decided to post this now instead of days from now. Because I love you all. And now I have to get to work making a FABULOUS lasagne with sauce that takes 5 hours to slow cook. ^_^ 
> 
> please review, comments make me so happy, and I like knowing what is going on in the readers' heads so I know if I am doing things right or not.
> 
> Dedicated to youcantsaymylastname, who has been awesome enough to review all the chapters so far and set me smiling most of the day. Thanks for the support!

Sherlock hated the inane media idiots buzzing like flies around a dead corpse, or corpses in this particular instance. This case had better be interesting, he may have been BORED lately, but couldn't this have happened later this evening or even a day later? John would have continued last nights activities this morning, continued them for another few hours at least before going and making breakfast and serving it to him in bed then giving him an earth shattering blowjob and maybe even helping him bathe. John had done that once, after the first time. Annoying as it was, Sherlock really DID have a difficult time standing for any amount of time that day, he hadn't had any time to prepare for John's unexpected reaction, a fact he never overlooked again. While showering would have been very difficult to manage, sitting in the bath would have been even harder to get out of. So John had given him a sponge bath in bed.

Even so much later, Sherlock couldn't figure out just why that had made his pulse race so fast he was dizzy, how the simple application of soap and water with a flannel that wasn't held by his own hand, could be so completely enthralling, arousing, and sensual. It hadn't been a sexual experience for John, yet Sherlock had been so achingly hard that he'd had to bathe his own genitals to prevent embarrassment, a move he would later regret wholeheartedly. He had been trying to recreate the experiment ever since. He wanted to know if it was the fact that it had been John's hand touching him, or the fact that the experience had happened in a bed and his instinctual brain had taken the act as sexual, or if it was a combination of those and other factors that had made the simple act of John giving him a sponge bath, the same as countless nurses around the world gave their patients everyday, the same as he had experienced himself a few times during his lengthier visits in hospital, into one of the most singularly stimulating, arousing, and wonderful moments of Sherlock's life.

But twenty-five people had died, so he supposed that was something interesting even if later in the day would have been better timing, unless they had all been tediously killed, in which case he would never forgive the murderer for ruining his morning in bed.

They were led inside and Donovan as always, was guarding the tape, having been pulled from yet another tryst with Anderson. He couldn't fathom what she saw in the brainless moron. He pasted on the smile that always raised her hackles and walked straight towards her instead of further down closer to the crime scene. "Good Morning Sally, lovely day for a mass murder isn't it? Hope that three AM call didn't interrupt anything torrid."

"Freak. Think you can prove this one wasn't you too, do you?"

"I keep my airtight alibi with me at all times. Too bad yours has to keep running back home to his wife."

The fire in her eyes, her desire to punch him, Sherlock kept pushing her to try it, wanting her to get her well earned retaliation. But knowing that John would break her wrist if she tried, she held her temper. Pity. She lifted the tape and pretended she wasn't affronted. At the evidence prep John put on the required coveralls, booties, gloves and hair cap, Sherlock grabbed a pair of gloves and a thin face mask once he learned it was being considered a possible bio-hazard.

Lestrade met them at the door and Sherlock could see that something about this case was getting to Lestrade already, something had hit home. "What can you tell me?" Sherlock questioned of Lestrade, trying to get the man to snap out of whatever place in his brain he'd gotten stuck in.

"Twelve women, thirteen men, almost all had ID's on them, jewelry and wallets intact, ages range from twenty to thirty-six for the women, and twenty-four to forty for the men. No definite links as to why they might have been chosen, cause of deaths undetermined and that's mainly what I want from you right now, we can sort out the rest later. I need a cause of death, so I know whether this was a bio terrorist attack or something else. A profile of who we could start looking for might be nice too, but that's it for right now until I can get those hyenas to back off. We have taken photos and fingerprints and we don't know what was disturbed yet. We've got the kids who found them getting their prints run to rule them out, and taking DNA swabs as well to be safe. We don't know who else besides one of the kids parents tramped through here yet, but I'm dying for you to tell me who did so you give me a reason to haul them in for questioning and bully the snot out of them for as long as I'm allowed to."

"You said almost all, how many haven't been ID'd?"

"Two men about age thirty-five or so. No coats, no wallets, but their watches were still in place so we don't think they were robbed."

"Near the door?"

"Yeah, first two in the room."

"Excellent. How many men do you have at the moment?"

"Few over twenty why?"

"Order them around the back of the barricade, block in the press and don't let them out. John grab that biosuit and put on a face mask, Lestrade you too." Sherlock put on the medical mask and a hair cap and started suiting up in the biohazard gear.

"Sherlock what are you doing?" Lestrade asked, as John obediently started suiting up.

"A favor for you, now come on before they try to make a break for it." He said and went back the way he came, John close beside him. Lestrade swore and suited up as well ordering some men around back of the barricade to keep the press in no matter what.

They ducked back under the tape to Sally's puzzled look, and made their way straight to the line of press. Bulbs flashed dozens of times a second and reporters started shouting a hundred different questions. Sherlock just stood there waiting patiently for two whole minutes before the racket died down, none of them had noticed they were no longer able to leave. Sherlock raised his hands for silence and every last one of them shut up. In a smooth, clinical tone with absolutely no hint of his public school accent, he spoke to the crowd.

"Will you please lower your cameras, and turn off your video? I think all of you have taken sufficient pictures of me for the moment, and I would like to see who I'm talking to. I don't mind being on record, but I doubt what I have to say will be anything you want to report on just now anyway, so I'd rather not waste your tape. Thank you. We are in no way trying to silence the press, let me make that quite clear right now, but I doubt this is anything that any of you will want to talk about, so I thought we could just keep it between us. First of all has anyone left since you arrived, are we missing anybody? Good that makes my job a whole lot easier. My name is Doctor Riley Westfield, and I'm sorry to say that some journalists eager to catch a scoop on this story made use of the crime scene for their own purposes before the site was contained. The morality and legality of such a thing not withstanding, and something I personally couldn't care less about, we have reason to believe that this may have been a biological terrorist attack. Therefore these people have not only exposed themselves to the same deadly mutated pathogens which claimed the lives of the victims, but since you are all standing in a group, they could still be passing it on to the rest of you as we speak. Everyone present has to be placed under a mandatory quarantine for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours depending on what we find, and we will be running tests to make sure you are alright and not carriers. Your equipment will be taken and cleaned and returned to you as soon as possible. We also discovered high concentrations of radiation but not yet the source, so this place might have been used as an illegal dumping ground for nuclear waste, we don't know yet but will keep you informed, so please tell someone immediately if you begin to experience signs of nausea, headache, or skin irritation. If you would please leave your equipment here with Doctor Rumstead and then follow my associate Dr. Hamish, we will get everybody situated and comfortable as soon as possible."

One by one the grumbling reporters and cameramen set their equipment down at Lestrade's feet and followed John to an open area off to the side where chairs were able to be set up completely away from the rest of the activity.

"What on earth are you doing Sherlock? They'll all have my head for this, not to mention my boss!"

"How is that when they don't know who you are and can't see your face Dr. Rumstead? You also don't exist so I doubt your name will come up. Erect a quarantine tent over them, and you have medical resources available. Draw blood, and give them shots of saline and vitamins, they'll never know the difference. You have them for up to two full days if you want, that is up to forty-eight hours of media silence, and if anyone else breaks the story before then you'll have another person who was in that room besides the blond woman in the purple suit. Here, give this to Anderson, have him put some on his gloves before he touches her, and makes sure he touches her hands. Don't look at me like that it's just powdered rose hips, common itching powder. It will give her a scare and probably teach her to go poking about things she shouldn't, and when you take their clothes and personal belongings before their decontamination shower you'll find the wallets of the two missing men in her pockets. And since they willingly surrendered their tapes you can check them for further evidence to see what else they tampered with. A high-powered magnet will ensure that her tape is unusable, or just insert a blank one. You're welcome." And with that Sherlock turned around and headed back into the building to view the crime scene.

He ditched the bio suit, grabbed several pairs of gloves and went inside. In a space of about ten square meters the bodies lay helter-skelter, men and women of varying ages, some curled up tight on their sides, a few men who looked like they had begun fist fights with each other. Several had vomited, and a few had obviously had seizures. Hundreds of details flicked through his mind about each one, and finally he saw what had Lestrade so shaken. The youngest girl, age 20, she had clawed herself bloody and seemed to have been trying to eat her own arm, and looked very similar to Lestrade's oldest daughter that the man had a picture of on his desk, was even wearing something similar. He checked the wounds, smelled the air, made observations, his list was getting shorter and shorter when John finally entered the room and immediately swore. "Jesus Christ."

"Good you're here. No needle marks on the arms. I need you to confirm something for me help me start lifting their shirts and pulling down trousers."

"Shirts and trousers?"

"Yes, shirts and trousers, aren't you listening? Many signs add up but others are off, and there's also a slight tang of fruit in the air don't you smell it? They must have been given a cocktail, it's the only possible explanation, and if it wasn't given intravenously or orally that leaves subcutaneous or muscular injections. Look for needle marks." He lifted up the first shirt and saw exactly what he expected to see. "John, if someone came to you complaining of desperate thirst, constant hunger, abdominal cramps, nausea, and dizziness, what would be your initial diagnosis before running any tests?"

"I would suspect, I don't know, Diabetes or Hypoglycemia probably. I would need blood work to be sure."

"And smelling of fruit?"

John's eyes went wide. "Ketoacidosis. Oh gods were they all diabetic do you think?"

"There are injection marks on the stomach, consistent with insulin injections, but I'm not seeing marks older than a few days at most, and their fingers show no signs of frequent blood test-..." Sherlock felt his eyes go wide as his mind stopped its train of thought and switched to a different conclusion entirely. "Oh clever, clever little murderer aren't you? John, there are three diabetic techs on this team, get their blood monitors and tell them I will pay them back for the lances and test strips if I have to, but get them, now."

Lestrade walked in moments later with a bit of a grin on his face. "Anderson's getting down right vicious with that woman as he's poking her with needles. I think this is the first time you have ever made him happy with one of your stunts. She's itching like she's got fire ants down her shirt. Once we are done with her we're going to be carting her off for pickpocketing, stealing evidence, and tampering with a crime scene in front of all her media pals who aren't too happy at the moment. So what have you found in here so far?"

"Possibly the murder weapon. So far I am seeing signs of steroids and possibly even a bad trip on LSD for the girl who tried to take off her own skin. "

"Are you saying they all overdosed on illicits?"

"No I think they were all murdered slowly over a period of several days on a killer cocktail that kept them so confused, weak, and sick they couldn't fight back. Obviously these are all people without a hugely caring family since your office hasn't been flooded with twenty-five missing person's reports over the past week. I also think the murderer watched it from beginning to end and probably administered some if not all of the injections himself."

"What do you think they were given?"

"I have a very good hunch, but I'll know for sure as soon as John comes back."

John returned a moment later with two of the glucose monitors and Sherlock grabbed one and tested the closest victim he could. The readings were unmistakable.

"Only four points. He would have fallen unconscious long before that."

"This one was at twelve before she seized out and choked on her own vomit." John announced from the victim he had checked.

"So the connection was they were diabetic?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock fought to not sigh in exasperation. 

"No I highly doubt any of them were diabetic at all. Besides being obviously dead the victims are all in the peak of health; fit, active, and very low body fat. They are also, as society would declare them, attractive. Insulin dependent diabetics are very prone to weight gain and swollen ankles even if rigorously maintained. Going without their shots for a few days would cause them to have very high levels of blood glucose since their bodies can't produce enough insulin to digest it. They would have gotten sick, possibly even hit coma status if they were bad enough, a few of them might have had their blood sugar drop, but that isn't the case here. They have all bottomed out, with the signs of extreme hypoglycemia and ketoacidosis, everywhere."

At Lestrade's puzzled look Sherlock finally rolled his eyes.

"In a week or less they were all intentionally starved to death. It's not possible for all of them to have naturally died of hunger in such a short amount of time, they were too healthy. Your murder weapon is insulin, laced with steroids, and possibly even adrenaline, LSD, and THC. He kept their bodies in an extremely heightened state of panic and need to consume energy, and then he didn't feed them, or if he did, he made sure there wasn't enough for everyone, in order to make them fight over it for his amusement. They didn't have high fat reserves to begin with, so their bodies would have begun burning muscle for energy as well, and if he didn't water them often, the ketoids from the fat and muscle burn built up higher and higher and resulted in the ketoacidosis. They would have all been desperate with thirst and hunger, the muscle pain and stomach cramps would have been unbearable, the headaches, nausea and confusion would have made it hard to fight back, a few of them, already doped up on steroids, became even more combative and started fighting each other, the lucky ones were knocked out, the unlucky ones slowly had their blood sugar keep dropping until they either seizured or their brains just shut down and slipped them into a coma until they just stopped breathing because their brain couldn't give the command. With how close together they died he knew exactly what he was doing. He also stayed to finish the job once they started dropping dead. Judging by the beard growth on the men, I'd say they were kept here for about five to six days before he finally let them die. It was a tortured way to do it, and he enjoyed that pain.

Your murderer is probably male, most likely somewhere in the mid to late thirties, true psychotic, probably diabetic, with very poor self-esteem, and a god complex. Probably grew up poor or abused, someone who has actually experienced starvation, and now wants to inflict the feeling on the 'perfect people' of the world who either turned a blind eye to his situation, looked down on him, refused to help, or caused the situation in the first place.

He also has access to both medical grade pharmaceuticals and street drugs, considers himself terribly clever, and is very careful with how meticulously he chose his victims, so he would have profiled them and stalked or gotten close to them weeks before their disappearance. He will be someone who people would easily trust or be in a high level of authority, perhaps even a doctor turned bad. This is not his first kill, in fact it's probably not even his tenth kill. Go back for at least ten years and look for similar deaths that were ruled as suicides or natural causes, if they were ruled as murder then there was very little talk about it or it was scattered all over and at a great enough distance that they haven't been linked. This is supposed to be shocking to us. He's tired of not having the attention of the media or being credited for his work. He's looking for attention, so if you give it to him the deaths will either stop or he will step it up to get even more attention, depends on his motive for wanting it. Personally I would play up the bio-terrorist attack angle in the media because it will piss him off that you all missed his 'brilliance', otherwise it might be hard to get him to make a mistake because he's already so practiced. Meanwhile look for patterns in those other deaths and get back to me."

Sherlock left the room and was just evidence binning the gloves and mask as Anderson came in. The man was in a tolerable mood today so Sherlock was ignoring him for the most part and reached for his coat. He didn't miss the small gasp of breath from Anderson however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So part of this was a bit of a rant to people who always said they wished they had my hypoglycemia and will most likely never read this, but it makes me feel better anyway. Plus you write what you know, and I know this would be a terrible way to go.
> 
> The symptoms of hypoglycemia are: weakness, fatigue, dizzy spells, aching constant hunger, stomach cramps, muscle pain, headaches, shaking, nausea, vomiting, impaired mental and cognitive abilities, combativeness, mood swings, possible violence, and loss of consciousness. And I have experienced them all. to my knowledge my blood glucose level has never dropped below 40, and I was hospitalized that time.
> 
> Your life not only feels ruled by food, but you also have a hard time putting on weight or gaining it back if you get sick for awhile. I've had an overactive pancreas resulting in chronic low blood sugar (hypoglycemia) since I was a child, and will most likely be an insulin dependent diabetic when I get older because it is a common result of my condition. The body makes too much insulin then it wears down and doesn't make enough or stops altogether.
> 
> I used to be picked on all the time for how much I had to eat to stay healthy, or even have people tell me 'Eating all the time and not gaining weight isn't a disease, it's a gift! I'd do anything to have it! I could eat anything I wanted without worry!'
> 
> Nope. My diet is very similar to a diabetics: Low sugar, no caffeine (in my case), high protein and vegetable, limited fruit, strict carbs and fats. And it used to be a lot worse when I was younger. How does eating 6 full meals and 3 snacks a day just so you don't lose weight or get horribly sick sound? That's 3,000-3,500 calories a day, now add another meal and two more high calorie snacks (4,000-4,500 cpd) for a month to try and gain back weight after something as simple as a week long flu, or a three month fast food only diet with the same 6-7 daily meal quantity requirements and drinking 2 ensure at every meal (6,000-8,000 cpd) after a two week hospital stay. ( I lost 23 pounds of muscle and fat in two weeks because I couldn't hold anything down) and that's not just a one time binge at the buffet, but an every single day kind of thing. Still sound fun? It's not, I promise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson POV

He hates the git, true. Anderson is the first to admit it that he can't stand the pompous, arrogant sod who thinks death is a game, acts like murders are better than sex, and that finding out a crime involves a serial killer is like finding an extra prize in his cereal box. But even still, what Anderson sees right now he doesn't even wish on Sherlock, he doesn't wish it on anyone.  


His mum was abused by his father, and he's studied injuries, forensics is his life's work, and so he knows, he just KNOWS that the horrid looking crescent-shaped bruise, semi black eye, with the small cut in the center on Sherlock's face that was revealed when he took off the mask and the plaster fell off with it, wasn't from a fist, and with the lack of marks on his knuckles, if Sherlock had been hit, he didn't fight back. He remembers with vivid clarity the night his father had backhanded his mum in the face with a vase, and the day after it looked startlingly similar to what Sherlock's face looks like now. Then he saw the man reach for his coat and the bruise around Sherlock's wrist, his skin so fair that it was showing individual finger marks, made him gasp.

Sherlock was being abused. It finally made sense, the annoying bids for attention, constantly trying to prove his importance and self-worth, the ridiculous coat and scarf even in summer, the... the split second guilty look in John's eyes when he came out of the room and flinched at seeing Sherlock's face...

No. Anderson didn't want to believe it. He LIKED John, the man had a noble streak a mile wide and was so damned kind and helpful, and he managed to rein in Sherlock... 

It felt like a whole stone slammed into Anderson's stomach. Everyone had noticed that Sherlock's behavior had changed drastically after John arrived. So many people were relieved about it, swore up, down, and sideways that it was so much better this way, begging John to keep it up because it made their jobs and lives a bit easier. Begging him to... oh gods.

No one cared to know how he did it or what their relationship was actually like, and John had insisted they weren't a couple for the longest time. If anyone was to be suspected, everyone would have immediately thought that Sherlock would be the one abusing John, the sociopath with no conscience or regard for human life. No one would suspect John, he didn't have a hint of guile or that 'leading a hidden life' vibe. Then again no one had suspected his father either, the highly respected civil servant, the perfect family man with the devoted wife and two children, the man with the bright future in politics.

"If you test the victims insulin and adrenaline levels, then check for steroids, THC, and LSD, you will save your department a lot of time and money." Sherlock, who was examining him like he was under a microscope, stated as if he were merely commenting on the weather, before he pulled on his coat.

Anderson couldn't stop himself, he was angry, he couldn't let this lie, this was one issue he just couldn't stand silence on, that's what let it continue unchecked. "I thought you were some sort of mixed martial arts, boxing, street scrapper. You took out five armed men on your own once, I SAW you! You could have fought back, you don't have an excuse, why the hell didn't you fight back?!"

Because he'd only been a child at the time, and his father's fists were nearly as big as his head, and fighting back only made it so much worse for his mum and his sister... But this was SHERLOCK, the man who lived to defy, and fight back, and prove everyone else wrong damn the consequences, the man who would argue with GOD because he felt he was beneath him, or wrong about something, and yet he hadn't fought John. And if someone who had proven time and again that he was so far above the rest of the mere mortals had fallen into the same damn trap, what hope did that leave for the rest of them? It made Anderson feel like a scared little kid all over again.

"Whatever you are referring to, or trying to think about in that infernal place you dare call a brain is entirely inaccurate, and you would do well to dismiss it before you hurt yourself."

But Anderson wasn't afraid of Sherlock, not at all. "Your plasters came off with the mask, but it's too sore for you to notice them gone right? So what's the story, you tripped by the table, slipped in the shower and hit the soap dish, walked into a door, turned into the corner of an open cupboard? My mum had a mark just like that once from the edge of a ceramic vase, after my father hit her in the face with it. She told people it was the car door when she had bent down to fetch her dropped keys. So what's your excuse? I'm dying to know."

"It's called rough sex Anderson, you should try it sometime, it's highly liberating. I fought the handcuffs and clipped my own cheek with them, end of story."

Anderson hated the fact he hadn't seen it, when he KNEW what to look for, the coverup, the denial, the defense of their own abusers... Anderson felt sick. He wanted to punch John, throttle him, make him feel what it was like to be helpless before someone else, not in defense of Sherlock, but because John had fooled him. Anderson had trusted him, liked him, and now... now he wanted to shoot him with the man's own gun.

He grabbed his gear and shouldered it roughly onto his back.

"Sure you did, that's why there are finger marks on your wrist instead of cuff abrasions, and why John looks so guilty instead of embarrassed. How many times has he apologized so far? Because John would NEVER hurt you, Sherlock, he CARES too damn much, you know that right?"

And he pushed through the two of them, shoving hard into John with his shoulder and near sending the shorter man falling down. Good. John hadn't denied a word of it after all, and he refused to be afraid of John.

Anderson had work to do, and he needed to get lost in his work for a bit, he needed to feel strong and brave and useful in there, helping find the person who killed those people, collecting data and evidence to put them away for life.

Just like he'd put his father away by setting up the video recorder in the living room and taking pictures of his mother's injuries when she wasn't looking, with a mini camera his aunt had given him for Christmas. He had snuck out in the middle of the night after a really bad row when he was ten. He took the tape and roll of film to the police station four blocks over and asked them to please save his mum because he was too little, and his dad had bloodied her up real bad tonight and she wasn't moving. His collecting evidence had saved his mum's life. They'd put his father in jail, his mum was taken to hospital for two months, and had to go to counseling for a few years. Once she was all better she got a divorce and pressed as many charges as possible, and she won because she'd had the evidence.

Evidence was the most important thing. People could say anything, but it was the PROOF people actually needed in order to see who was telling the truth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because offsetting angst with sex is always a good thing.

Of all the times for Anderson to decide to be observant... John had been struck too speechless by Anderson's sudden hostile confrontation to get a word in edgewise, and really, what could he say? Especially since the man was right. He had never been one for lying or deceptions, in fact the men in his unit had often called him 'Honest John', both as a nickname and as a military joke on how dangerous he could be even though he didn't look the type.

It didn't help matters that Greg had come in during the middle of it all and was looking at him with a confused and wary look on his face, and Sherlock seemed like he was about to go after Anderson in order to do something very foolish, but as he tried to follow Anderson back into the crime scene and possibly add Anderson's name onto the list of victims, John caught Sherlock's arm and held it firmly, not letting him pass, and his eyes begging the determined consulting detective to let it go. Now Sherlock was glaring at John with a look that he couldn't really determine the meaning of. If he had thought the man capable of feeling the emotion, he would have almost described it as shock. Sherlock finally backed down, snatched his scarf and hastily wrapped it around his neck, then turned to leave with a disgusted look on his face, a calling of 'Coming John?' and a dramatic flare of his coat as he stormed out the door. John was about to follow him when he was stopped by Greg catching hold of his wrist.

"Hang on, what the hell's going on? Did you really hit Sherlock like that?"

John shook his head, well he hadn't HIT him, that much was true. "No, I didn't hit him. It... it really did happen during sex, on accident, things got a bit carried away."

"Right. Okay I'm going to let this slide because Sherlock isn't hurt and I know he bruises like the dickens. But still John, I need to warn you, just as your mate Greg alright? You need to be careful. Rough sex toes a bad line with the uppity ups. Technically the law says anything which leaves a mark beyond 'transient or trifling' is illegal, and you can't consent to it. It counts as assault and you work around a whole lot of cops. Most wouldn't do anything unless Sherlock complained about something, or he ended up in hospital, but a few would, and that's not something I ever want to put you through. So be careful with him alright?"

Blushing and just desperate to get out of there, John hastily nodded his agreement and all but ran after Sherlock in his haste to get away from his embarrassment. Sherlock had gotten so ahead of him he couldn't even see him, and even when he made it to where Harcourt would be waiting to take them back, it was still a few moments before John spotted Sherlock, glowering spectacularly and tucking something into his pocket.

The way back was tense, near volatile, and somehow, scared? Sherlock was an absolute mix of such conflicting emotions that John truly couldn't say anything. And while John wanted to ask, since he was a huge believer in not beating around the bush or saying one thing and meaning another, he also did not want to have this discussion with Harcourt playing witness to what John could tell was going to probably be an amazing row. By the time they got to Baker street John was praying for Mrs. Hudson and all of the neighbors to not be at home.

Mrs. Hudson must not have been home because he had barely closed the front door when Sherlock let loose and pinned John back against the wall. 

"Why did you stop me? Why wouldn't you let me go after that ignorant, pathetic, whimpering, whining, stupid, dunderheaded moron and make him take those dreadful words about you back? WHY? Why would you let him insinuate that you-"

"I didn't want you getting charged with assault of an officer and carted off to jail because it would have made Anderson's fucking DAY! And it's not insinuation when it's true Sherlock."

"WHAT?! He no less than called you an abusive lover straight to your FACE and you-"

"What else would you call it Sherlock? I may not have hit you with that mug, but it's still my fault you got that bruise and the ones that are hiding under your clothes, and all the others I've given you before! That's what intentionally hurting another person repeatedly is called, Sherlock, it's called abuse. So I'm not going to call them a liar when someone calls me on it! "

"No! John you aren't-"

"Apparently I AM, Sherlock, even if I never meant to be and I don't know why I am. But I don't run away from my mistakes, and what I did yesterday definitely counts as me making a terrible mistake. I hurt you, and it isn't the first time I've done it. Believe it or not Anderson was trying to do you a favor, wake you up to reality, and part of me is praying that you will actually listen to him and throw me out."

"Are you mad? Why would I throw you out? I've told you before I'm not afraid of you!"

"Well you should be! There is something dark and vicious inside of me Sherlock, something that is threatening to destroy everything I want to protect and am charged with to keep safe. I know how to save you from almost everything else, but I don't know how to protect you from myself! I can't leave you, I can't. I'm not strong enough. I've had to be near you since the day I met you because you have become as necessary as AIR to me Sherlock, and I can't just choose to stop breathing. You have to be the one to end it, because I never will, I could never do that. I don't know how to protect you from that dark thing inside of me, I don't know how to get rid of it, I can't figure out how to stop it, I don't even know why it's _there_! But it's hurting you and I have to destroy it, and Anderson's right, you never fight back, why don't you ever fight back?!"

Sherlock stood staring at him wide-eyed for a split second and then Sherlock's hands were gripping his hair and Sherlock's lips were on his own, rough, and fierce, and demanding, and part of John wanted to cry. He had absolutely no right to love this man as much as he did.

They stood there in the foyer with Sherlock pressing him against the door and the man's tongue literally halfway down his throat in a possessive gesture he'd only seen once before, the first night Sherlock had kissed him, after they went home from the incident at the pool.

He barely registered that the kiss had stopped when he heard Sherlock's sultry, sinful voice purring in his ear even as his hand slipped down to palm John's cock through his trousers. His other grabbed John's bad arm, winched it behind his back and held it in place only by gripping his thumb. The hand on his cock became serious, tightening hard with a very threatening half twist and fingernails threatening to dig in, while Sherlock's knee pressed behind John's own, threatening to knock him off his feet and land him into a world of pain.

"Because, John Hamish Watson, I in no way consider you an abuser or a threat to me. The day you make me afraid of you or make me fear for my own life, is the day I will shoot you with your own gun."

That really shouldn't have been arousing to hear, especially in the position he was in, but dying by Sherlock's hand if things went too far, (and he was SO relieved to know that there WAS a too far,) John was surprisingly okay with that. He knew he shouldn't give in, he knew he had still been trying to make a point and that Sherlock was intentionally distracting him because Anderson had pissed him off. But this part of Sherlock he could interpret easily. If John wasn't going to let him assault the bastard then he had better shut up and distract the detective in other ways, ways that most likely involved him spreading his legs as Sherlock slipped between them in some form or another. The man had an uncanny ability of making his thoughts derail and making his mind go blank, and John, as always, followed Sherlock's lead. 

The tongue in John's mouth was sudden and possessive, and he had no choice but utter submission. He didn't even remember getting up the stairs, let alone pulling his jumper over his head, but he was definitely in their own flat and fully naked when he and Sherlock tumbled to the floor of the living room rutting against each other with such NEED that John could hardly stand it. He had no idea where Sherlock had found one of the full bottles of lube, but he didn't care as he held his legs wide open as Sherlock quickly slicked them both up and slid home, and John felt him so deep inside it was too much and yet never enough all at the same time, and even though it ached, he wanted more. Their pace was fast and hard and John didn't even notice he had been sobbing for a reason he couldn't have even named until he felt Sherlock wiping away the tears and carding his fingers through his hair and telling him it would be alright, even as he continued thrusting deep inside of John's body.

John was high on emotions and the feel and taste of Sherlock. He didn't care how long they lasted, he couldn't tell if they had been going at it for minutes or hours, but Sherlock was in him, with him, invading every single one of John's senses until Sherlock made himself John's entire world, and he LOVED that. It felt like Sherlock was pressing behind his navel or even deeper, which was perfect, John's breath was ragged, he was sweating and thrusting back to meet Sherlock's hips in a fantastic counterpoint all while touching and kissing and licking and biting over every single bit of the detective's skin he could reach as the man plunged deep and hard into him. Sherlock's eyes screwed shut tightly and silky brunette curls clung to the detective's sweaty forehead. However long it lasted, John clutched at Sherlock's shoulders and screamed as he finally came hard, stimulated only by Sherlock's cock and his own rutting against the man's stomach. 

His body clenched tightly around the organ that was trying to drive him bodily into the ground, until Sherlock couldn't even move for a moment as John desperately tried to hold onto that wave of pleasure crashing through him. He kissed the lithe beauty that was fucking every single thought out of his head as deeply as he could, tongues battling as John rode out his orgasm, trying to suck the detective's tongue further down his throat, desperate to be claimed utterly. Sherlock continued to thrust and thrust, hard and deep, long after the doctor was spent, using John's body to satisfy his own needs and lust. Sherlock's hands grabbed his hips and slammed him harder and faster onto that glorious cock until finally Sherlock pressed inside and just held him there as he let out a guttural sound and came, not moving or breathing until he had spilled every drop inside of John.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, whose arms were shaking, and dragged him down onto his chest, neither caring that they were both a wrecked, sticky mess, and he just held Sherlock, and loved him, and hoped the brilliant man could somehow recognize even half of the love John felt for him.

They were still for maybe half an hour before Sherlock insisted they get cleaned up and then tucked them into bed together since neither had gotten enough sleep the night before. 

John fell asleep with the warmth of the blanket wrapped tightly around him and the feeling of Sherlock still carding his fingers through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, really, sex solves everything... but not in the way you're thinking.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but house wide stomach flus are not conducive to writing. thank you for being patient.

This wasn't just 'a bit not good', this was Bad. This was an unforeseen complication, and it was driving him absolutely MAD. He wanted to pace, to think, to scream, to kill Anderson, (though slashing his tires had made him feel slightly better), and part of him wanted to smack John too, but what he really didn't want to do was admit that this was his own damn fault for not seeing it sooner.

It was only an experiment, he had gotten a certain, completely unexpected reaction out of John once, and all he'd been trying to do was to duplicate the results, he couldn't let John know what he was going for, because to manipulate the variables would change the data and therefore the outcome, even if John had reacted in the desired way, and that just wasn't scientific. But what he hadn't considered is how everyone else would see it since they didn't know it was an experiment in reactions. They saw it as John losing control, John hurting him, abusing him, and that made Sherlock so ANGRY that anyone could even think for one second that John had it in him to be abusive.

How could anyone be so blind? John under no circumstances had any love of having power over another, if anything he was selflessly noble and protective to a fault. John had seen Sherlock at his worst and also at his weakest and had never done anything to revel in it, or even come close to taking advantage of the situation. They were all moronic idiots not even worthy of breathing the air on the same PLANET as John. He wondered if there was a way to make stupidity a painfully fatal disease. He was sure he could figure it out, now that he had sufficient motivation.

John at least was confused at what he knew to be true of himself and what he was doing. Sherlock once again hadn't thought John would ever consider himself capable of abuse, and thought the man had found some other logical explanation for what was happening when Sherlock made him lose his temper, but once again he realized just how differently he thought from the rest of the world.

When John had stopped him from going after Anderson he had been livid, and then when he had read John's face he had been horrified to realize that John had thought every word the little prick had said was true. He honestly believed that he was one of the number of those lowlifes who got off on controlling other people, insulting and hurting and breaking those of weaker and sometimes even better minds just so they wouldn't feel inferior. And that made him feel sick, because John was so far above that, John glowed like the Sun, miles above Sherlock. He was everything good, and warm, and wonderful in the world, and Sherlock had unknowingly convinced him that he was sewer trash.

Lestrade at least knew better than to automatically assume, he had listened to what John had to say. So Sherlock had gone and stabbed Anderson's sidewall nearest the curb with his pocket knife, shoving a large piece of glass from a broken bottle into it to hide that he had done it. He had also put a screw in the front passenger tire that would slowly deflate it, and slightly dug a 3 inch nail into the other rear tire and braced it against the asphalt so that Anderson would back over it. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes. John however was already waiting for him to go home.

He had wanted to scream at John, grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, and when they got home he had challenged him, tried to force John to see reason, that he could never be among the lowly, that he was so far above them they couldn't even dream of touching him, let alone of dragging him down to their ranks.

"That's what intentionally hurting another person repeatedly is called, Sherlock, it's called abuse."

And Sherlock felt frozen. No. NononononoNO! He hated his brain as it made another connection that he hadn't considered. _Abuse: Noun. 1: a corrupt practice or custom, 2: improper or excessive use or treatment; misuse, 3: a deceitful act or deception, 4: language that condemns or vilifies, usually unjustly, intemperately, or angrily, 5: physical maltreatment._

That was the definition, and Sherlock realized with gut wrenching horror that he'd been doing almost all of that to John, intentionally finding all the soft spots and chinks in his armor and needling them just so, in order to get what he wanted, not caring how it affected John. He himself was abusing John, and that was the most sickening realization he'd ever had.

Sherlock had wanted to speak, say something, anything, but his throat had felt choked up and he completely forgot every word in his massive vocabulary. So he had kissed John instead, desperately wanting to tell him he was sorry in a hundred different ways, and to prove to him that there was no way he was a scared victim, and that John wasn't an abuser.

He adored kissing John, as he had found out that first night, when they had both been so close to dying at the hand of Moriarty. Sherlock had realized that John really was his heart, his conscience, and the man who was not only willing to kill for him, but would also willingly die by his side, and Sherlock just had to figure out WHY.

Why was someone so simple also so extraordinary, loyal, and full of surprises? And then he'd seen it clear as day in John's eyes, he loved Sherlock. John couldn't care less what kind of love it was or if it would ever be reciprocated or not, John loved him and would go to the ends of the earth and back again for him. (Sherlock had even tested the theory later on to confirm. John had traipsed half the globe in 4 days collecting evidence from 12 different places for him and had smiled for 5 whole minutes after Sherlock had greeted him at the door and sat him down with a cup of tea and a very uncharacteristic shoulder squeeze, before grabbing up the evidence and texting Lestrade he had everything needed to put the perpetrator away.)

That had filled Sherlock with a mix of emotions he couldn't describe at the time, because emotions weren't his thing, they weren't his area, pheromones and chemicals tricking the brain into specific responses was easy enough, but the delicate dance of them; relief, desire, lust, need, reciprocation, love... it was more than he was used to, in fact it was completely overwhelming. Could he really be blamed for giving into sentiment that one time and just acting on his base instinct, his reptilian brain if such things could be believed, and claiming what he wanted, and had been so freely given?

No, and honestly the fact they never went back to 'not kissing' afterward had also filled Sherlock with more emotions and feelings than he was technically comfortable admitting he had.

Kissing John always flooded his brain with a slew of data that was familiar but somehow new every time. Taste, smell, touch, pressure, temperature, blushing, heat, lust, pheromones, teeth, tongue, saliva, JOHN. Sherlock craved that information, he could never get enough data. Nothing about John was ever going to be deleted from his hard drive, not ever. He was going to horde every single detail and fact he could get a hold of, because John was important, John was precious, John was everything. And now he had gone and mucked everything up with an experiment. Why were these unspoken rules so damned difficult to manage?

He finally found his voice and told John flat out that he couldn't possibly be an abuser, well that's what he had intended, but the words didn't come out quite right. But he thinks that John understood, at least to some degree, and everything had dissolved from there into passion, and heat, and lust. He dominated John with a force of will that he couldn't put any other name to, except NEED.

Now he wanted to make things right, he wanted to fix this mistake he had made, even though John hadn't figured it out yet. For the first time ever, Sherlock felt GUILTY about something, and he had no idea what to do in this situation. He had been forced to apologize for any number of transgressions when he'd been a child, but he hadn't truly MEANT any of them. Was he supposed to confess, and then make it right? No one else had even caught on, and it made his gut twist when he thought of trying to explain what exactly he had done, especially to John. Could he make him understand that he hadn't MEANT for him to be hurt by it? Would that even work? John might have the patience of a mythological saint, but when his ire was raised he had a surprisingly short amount of tolerance for Sherlock, and Sherlock already knew this would most likely end badly.

Emotions and feelings and relationships weren't his thing, that's another way John had helped him, because he could give the perspective he couldn't understand. John was literally his heart, so how did he go about fixing the heart he'd injured when it didn't even know it had been hurt?

His phone chimed with a text.

_Finally realize that your favorite experiment is not simply a collection of chemicals in a laboratory for you to manipulate at will? -M_

Sherlock felt his face blanch and scanned the room. The air vent, it had to be. He knew Mycroft kept rigorous surveillance on him, he had simply chosen to ignore it, had thought it wouldn't be in the flat proper, especially not in the bedrooms, but no, Mycroft had seen everything, probably from the beginning, and Sherlock knew that if Mycroft thought John was intentionally hurting him, John would have simply disappeared from the flat one day without a trace and never have been seen again.

His stomach dropped. How close had he come to getting John killed for something he had started? His fingers were shaking as he typed two words: _How close? SH_

_Consider yourself lucky there was audio that day. I was very... Displeased. -M_

That made his blood boil. He wasn't some errant child who needed constant watching anymore, and even if he did, he had John now, who watched over him and protected him better than Mycroft ever had. But even more than that, John was HIS. He was the only one who had the right to end Sherlock's life or put a restraint on him in any way, because he trusted John, loved John, he NEEDED John, and Mycroft in his pompous arrogance had nearly taken him away.

_John is MINE, I thought I had made that perfectly clear to you. You do NOT interfere with him in any way, you have NO right. And get your bloody surveillance out of my flat! SH_

_It seems prudent to maintain surveillance considering the number of attacks, kidnappings, break ins, and explosions which seem to occur there with disturbing frequency. -M_

_Restrict it to external, doors, windows, and the kitchen if you MUST, but we are allowed our privacy you pompous voyeur. SH_

_Embarrassment is only for those who have something to hide or be ashamed of. Curious how you are expressing that now. John is not a toy, he is his own person, most likely even more so if he learns what you have done. Do you really think he'd ever trust you again if you confessed?-M_

Sherlock had no answer for that.

_What do I do? SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep really, just like chapter 6 said, Sherlock started all of this over wanting John to give him another sponge bath. *Slaps the idiot upside the head* 
> 
> OOOOH Mycroft next chappie! Hehe


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft actually pitied his brother. He knew exactly what it took for him to ask that.

 

For all the Holmes' brilliance was a useful thing, it was also a double-sided blade that could turn on its owner instantly or was accompanied by crippling side effects in some form or another. Even as a child anything that wasn't rational, logical, had a direct impact on his life, or was able to be quantifiably measured, tested, and irrevocably proven, Sherlock had dismissed as entirely unimportant. Unfortunately that had included several things that most people considered basic human characteristics, such as friendships, emotions, morals, boundaries, restraint, attachments, and 'sentiment' of any kind.

 

When Sherlock was seven, he had questioned with complete seriousness, why their mother was crying, after he had gone after a bird's nest in the dead of winter, and had taken a rather nasty spill from a tree overlooking the pond and fallen through the ice when the branch had broken. Sherlock had come out of it with a broken leg, a broken arm, a cracked skull, and hypothermia, he had been lucky the gardener had seen it happen and was able to pull him out in time.

 

Yet Sherlock had been completely unable to understand why getting so badly hurt and coming close to death could upset their mother at all. She'd been completely inconsolable after Sherlock had asked. She was a Holmes by marriage after all, she couldn't understand yet that Sherlock was a Holmes through and through, and that this was simply the first of many such instances to come and it had nothing to do with her capabilities as a parent.

 

Fortunately their brother Sherringford was simply brilliant with finances, besides that he had taken after their mother, and it was no secret he was closer to her than Sherlock and Mycroft himself were. He truly hoped it was a comfort to her to have a child she could somewhat relate to.

 

Incidentally on this particular generational branch of the family tree, the Holmes traits had become more prominent with each child their mother had borne, and Sherlock had the worst of it. The thrice refined and honed blade of his mind was razor-sharp on both sides, cleanly slicing through everything in its path, and then just as quickly, it's owner. Sherlock had become an addict for years in an attempt to escape his own mind, and though Mycroft didn't approve, he could understand Sherlock's reasoning, misguided though it was. If he made his mind speed up it all became a hum of white noise and was easier to ignore. At least it was a drug easy for Mycroft to obtain pure and to limit Sherlock's supply of, gradually cutting it with prescription drugs to aid his recovery until Sherlock's self medication was truly that. The now harmless combination of vitamins, minerals, amino acids, caffeine, and prescription drugs that Sherlock routinely injected these days still gave him a feeling of being high, but did him far more good than harm and wasn't in any way illegal, seeing as Sherlock had prescriptions posted in his medical record for everything, along with instructions to inject intravenously, even if he wasn't aware of it.

 

Mycroft knew that he himself was no better than Sherlock, though he did have an easier time of maintaining his condition through rigid, absolute, and complete control. Control of himself and his environment, the people around him, the events in his life, everything. He had systematically organized, compartmentalized, labeled, filed, and monitored everything in his world into beautiful order, leaving him holding an exquisitely entwined and complicated web of interconnected strings. He could pluck any number of any hundred thousand of those strings and know exactly the path the vibration would take, and all the strings it would touch along the way.

 

Sherlock had always been the most discordant string in his orchestra, as chaotic and unpredictable as a hurricane, to the point that even cleaning up Sherlock's messes had become perfected over time, and Mycroft did what he could to bring his brother's life into some semblance of sanity and order. The flat was covered, the bills paid for, his pin card always had a hefty sum available, the cupboards were constantly stocked with food and tea, a laundry service came by once a week, and a biohazard team scrubbed and re-stocked the makeshift laboratory once a week or after an experiment was finished.

 

Since all of Sherlock's physical needs were covered, it was a complete shock to Mycroft when Sherlock had started making inquiries about a flatmate. He could only conclude that it was a new experiment on how quickly he could drive someone out of their heads, and after the first three had all left in under a month, Mycroft had then had an extremely good laugh hearing Sherlock talking to Mike Stamford and saying he didn't know what the problem was, he must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.

 

Then there was John Hamish Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. If Mycroft had been given to believe in such things as Divine Providence, he would have suspected its hand in not only creating the man, but also in placing him directly into Sherlock's path. The connection was so instant, perfect, and absolute, that Mycroft had been suspicious in the extreme. He had dug so far down looking for skeletons in the man's closet he had almost hit oil. John was too perfect to be real, and Mycroft admits, if only to himself, how jealous he was that John could not only connect with his brother closer than he ever could, but that he was also able to quiet if not tame the tempestuous storm that was Sherlock Holmes. Then again Mycroft had never thought he be so relieved to get a report that John Watson had shot someone either.

 

Sherlock mellowed considerably under John's influence, and his brother no longer raged alone against the world, frustrated with things he couldn't understand, he now had a guide, an interpreter, and someone, Mycroft was infinitely grateful to learn, who had a protective streak for his youngest brother that was a mile wide that he could encourage whole heartedly. So it had been a double blow when he'd seen the first tape of Sherlock's 'abuse'. He wasn't used to misjudging a person so badly, especially someone as transparent as John. But on the second time through, he realized what exactly it was that he was seeing. And for the first time in his life, Mycroft felt torn on whose side to take. It didn't last long.

 

And now it seems as if Sherlock had finally come to his senses, John had obviously said or done something that had been able to lead Sherlock's unceasing tangle of thoughts to the fact that what he was doing was wrong. Now it was all a matter of damage control, and Mycroft was VERY good at damage control, especially when it came to Sherlock.

 

_In this particular instance, nothing, if you would be so kind. You have just taken on a new case, so you will be busy with that no doubt. You will still be able to relay any inquiries to him through text or email. -M_

 

_What do you want him for? What are you scheming? SH_

 

_I merely intend to do what I have always done for you, dear brother, Damage Control, nothing more. I will not be so cruel as to actually make you ask, but you do owe me a favor now, redeemable when I ask. -M_

 

_Where will you be taking him? SH_

 

_Where do you think? There is only one place we have ever taken our wounded. I assume you will join us once you finish up with your work? -M_

 

_Don't hurt him. SH_

 

_I daresay you have done enough of that all on your own haven't you? My people will be there before your Mrs. Hudson comes back from playing bridge. -M_

 

Mycroft called his assistant and five minutes later he received notification alerts that there was a transport van and escort, a helicopter prepped and cleared to take off when ordered, and that all other details were ready. Mycroft gave the go ahead and set his phone to silently send everything directly to voicemail.

 

He swirled his brandy in his glass before taking a sip. This one would be a tricky string to maneuver and weave through. John was a study in dichotomy, both tough and delicate, fiercely courageous yet easily injured, a person of deep feelings yet ruthless resolve, a trained healer with very few qualms about killing, a beloved victim of his brother's misguidance. Such a pity that, he liked John.

 

Awhile later an incoming message chimed letting them know that the escort had arrived with John. He finished the last swallow of his brandy, stood up and straightened his suit, picked up the file from the woman by the door and walked out of the room.

 

A guard stood at the door where John was waiting and he stepped aside to let Mycroft in. John was sitting in the chair at the table and Mycroft nodded to the guard behind him. The man stepped forward and ripped the black cloth hood off John's head and before the doctor could get any of his bearings back, for the first time in his life, Mycroft got his hands dirty as he lashed out and punched John across the face with his fist as hard as he could. It hurt just as much as he thought it would, but he didn't let it show.

 

"I have to admit, John, that I have been rather... disappointed in you of late. I had thought my previous actions had been enough to impart upon you what I was expecting from you. For your sake I have buried three counts of murder, two counts of manslaughter, illegal possession of a firearm, illegal possession and acquisition of ammunition, multiple counts of discharging an illegal firearm in public, breaking and entering, theft, destruction of antiquities and public property, assisting in the deaths of foreign intelligence, fraudulent impersonation to gain access to a top-secret government facility, an ASBO, disturbing the peace, and several other charges that happen to accrue when one takes up to running around after my brother. I made everything go away John, no jail time, not even any inquiries, made it legal for you to have your gun, got you a promotion, made sure you would still get your pension, made it so no authority save the Queen herself could stop you from doing what I asked you to do. And I only asked you to do ONE thing John, do you remember what that is?"

 

"Protect Sherlock."

 

"That's right." He nodded to the guard who still stood behind John, who grabbed his hair, forced his head back and pressed a very large Bowie knife under the doctor's chin. "After all of my leniency and generosity, is this really the gratitude I receive in return John, Sherlock's physical and sexual abuse? Given your complete and utter repetitive failures in this endeavor, perpetuated by your own two hands no less, can you give me one singular reason as to why I shouldn't kill you right now and leave your worthless corpse to rot?"

 

_________________________TBC. Much sooner this time I promise._______________________

 

A/N: Apologies my dear readers, I did not mean to be out of touch for so long, nor make you wait so long for an update or have it seem like I had abandoned this story. I haven't I promise. Many important and stressful things simply have come up one after the other these past few months, and honestly, writing fanfic has been one of the absolute last things on my mind. Thank all of you for your patience, and as a semi early Yule gift I will try to have the next chapter edited and posted within the next few days or so. Thanks again for reading and please leave a review if you like what I write. Feedback is muse food!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Um this chapter actually needs a squick warning this time. I figure if MY stomach turned a bit while writing it, even with how desensitized I am, then yours definitely might. I have been in the medieval study and re-enactment field for FAR too long, so when I describe something as TORTURE, you can be damned sure it's accurate and that I MEAN it. I will mark that part with *WARNING* and finish with *SAFE* so you can skip it if you want to. I am a benevolent author, I will not squick you without your consent. So here you go:
> 
> WARNING: Possible squick. This chapter contains realistic gore and graphic descriptions of injuries acquired through torture. Also medical stuff just in case people have a trigger or phobia. The section WILL be appropriately marked!
> 
> Now you can't say I didn't warn you, so no complaints!

It wasn't pleasant to wake up in the middle of the afternoon from an after shag nap, to an armed squadron of special forces busting down the bedroom door and grabbing your naked arse out of bed while they restrained your lover. John was barely able to grab the comforter to wrap around himself before they were ushering him through the apartment in the middle of their group with guns at his back, then down the stairs and out the back door and into an unmarked black van in the alley. He was seated between two men and across from four others as the van drove off silent, efficient, and without a word from anyone. One of the men across from him handed him a set of his own clothes, shoes, and his wallet, all neatly folded and waiting. Mycroft then. Well, probably. This could be bad, or very VERY bad.

John knew better than to fight with six armed men without knowing the whole story, and he was willing to deal with the situation as it occurred, so he calmly set about dressing himself, after all he was military, far more men than this had seen his arse naked before.

"I don't suppose any of you could tell me if he's just in THAT much of a hurry or THAT inordinately pissed could you? ... Guess not. Chances are you probably don't even know who the hell I'm talking about. Okay, I know none of you are going to tell me your names, so I'll just call you Mike, James, Peter, Will, Tom, and Steve okay? I'm John. And if anyone has a mint or a stick of gum they are willing to share before I have to talk to a man who may or may not be in the mood to level a few nations before dinner, and definitely has the capabilities to do so, I would really appreciate it. Mike? Peter? Steve? Ah thank you James. I got into the habit back in Afghanistan, they couldn't keep our unit supplied with enough soap or bandages for me to keep our boys patched up, but there was always a case of friggin mints and gum in every shipment. But I suppose an addiction to mint is far healthier than cigarettes in the long run anyway. Here you go- really? Cheers mate."

He tucked the pack back into his pocket when the man refused to take it back. The ride was completely silent, not even any radio as they drove who knows where. Silence is one thing, but awkward, uncomfortable silence is another matter entirely.

"Is he really so strict he won't even let you guys have music on the road?"

Tom rolled his eyes in disgust and turned a volume control on the radio panel on the ceiling. Slow, droning, deep and somber orchestral music filled the back of the van for a few moments before it was viciously turned off again. John smiled.

"Ah, yeah, that'll do it. Never was much of a fan of classical either, but my lover plays the violin, and made me a fan of at least that. He's really good at it, even composes his own songs. He doesn't think I've caught on to the fact that he plays right after I've found out he's stuck eyeballs in the olive jar again or has stashed another bag of thumbs or a head in the fridge. Last week it was some poor bloke's pelvis in the crisper, not the whole torso mind you, just the pelvis, and I winced in sympathy for the poor bugger. Skin and muscle still on and his bits and family jewels stuffed with wires and electrodes, sitting not three inches away from the celery. God only knows what he was up to with it, and is it sad to know I've gotten used to this sort of thing? I admit most of that posh culture stuff is able to bore me to tears, but him playing the violin, I like it, and it's something he doesn't do much for other people, so I kind of get to keep it all to myself. Though I'm seriously still debating on investing in a second fridge, the electric bill has to be worth the sanitation and health concerns I'd think."

James looked a bit green around the gills and Steve looked like John might be nuts. Tom however looked like he was fighting off a laugh. Perfect.

"Look I know you're all under orders, so I won't try to get you guys to tell me where we're going or anything, so just a simple nod or shake of the head will do. Is this drive going to take a while?"

James nodded.

"Great." he said and wrapped the blanket around himself again. "Well, in that case I'm just going to continue my little kip. You learn to rest when you can when you live and work with these mad geniuses, they tend to run on caffeine, nicotine patches, sleep deprivation, and sheer bloody-mindedness for days and weeks at a time. I'm sure you'll wake me when we get there. Ta."

 

He didn't know if they believed him or not, but he closed his eyes anyway and relaxed. He didn't expect them to start chatting their heads off or anything, but he did want to put out the air of confidence that he wasn't afraid of these guys. He figured he could easily overpower three of them, four if he was damned lucky, Will and Steve however looked like they could easily break him in half. James and Tom were the sympathy plays, the mints and music had been an excuse, to check their responses, they at least viewed him as an individual now, it would be slightly harder for them to harm him. If it came to a fight he'd have to go for a gun quick and use human shields. Mike was the smallest and not in a 'small but scrappy' way, John KNEW he could take him out. Peter didn't look very strong, but could probably put up one hell of a fight regardless.

The ride lasted a good forty minutes at least and John never gave up the pretense of being anything other than asleep. Sherlock had taught him about a dozen little tricks to it: routinely make sure no part of your body is tense, take slow, deep breaths that you hold for about three seconds before exhaling, don't lay completely still but shift a bit every so often as if getting comfortable, if you are being moved and trying to gather information you can halfway open your eyes in a quick, fluttering eye movement for about a second or two after any kind of jostle, deep bump, or sharp turn.

He knew them all, and employed most of them. Sherlock would have known exactly where they were just by turns and how long it would take them to get to each, but he couldn't do that. Eventually the van stopped and James shook his shoulder to wake him up, he popped one of the mints into his mouth that James had given him before Steve put a black cloth sack over his head. He tried to take his blanket with him but they made him leave it at the door they led him into, John knew it would most likely be back at home when he returned. He was ushered into a small room and through the little he could make out between the weave of the fabric, he was facing a one way mirror that reminded him of every single cop interrogation scene on telly he'd ever seen, but it wasn't near as funny when you had the sack over your head, were handcuffed to the chair, and had Steve the tank behind you.

They waited there in full silence for several minutes, seemed a small eternity of course, but he made sure to keep his breathing steady and even, no hint of fear, no showing of nerves. Though he could feel that his hand was as steady as stone. Mycroft must be pissed about something to have these guys pick him up instead of the aloof assistant, and he had been trying to puzzle out why when he remembered the one way mirror and almost broke out into a cold sweat as he figured it out. Big Brother was always watching. Mycroft had bugged the flat again from the last time Sherlock had done a surveillance sweep, he had seen what had happened to Sherlock last night. Oh great buggering fuck, not even Sherlock was going to be able to find the pieces of his body.

It had taken three of them to hold Sherlock down on the bed he'd been fighting so hard when they had taken John. He realized now that it wasn't frustration at his brother he had been seeing, the detective had been furiously terrified until Will had knocked him out with a rag of chloroform. Sherlock had figured it out even back then, he knew what was going to happen. Fuck, John didn't want that to be the last image of Sherlock he'd ever see, he tried to focus back to before that, pinned under Sherlock on the living room floor, desperate and needy and that intense gaze that missed absolutely nothing and stored it in that brilliant eidetic memory of his. He'd seen Sherlock steal his hairbrush before for some nefarious purpose, and return it as clean as when it was new, so Sherlock probably even had his DNA matrix memorized if he went looking for it in his mind palace. If he ever found so much as a fingernail, he'd know it was John's, and somehow that was comforting.

 

The door opened and clicked shut and a second later the hood was pulled off right before he was slugged across the face. Thank gods Mycroft had probably never truly been in a fist fight before, he missed his nose entirely and hit him square on the cheek. Hurt, yes, but he'd had far worse. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to laugh and tell Mycroft his sister routinely drew blood with one punch when she slugged him. Well she had until their mother told them that if Harry threw the first punch, John was allowed to hit back whether she was a girl or not. A few busted lips and noses later and Harry had stopped hitting him altogether.

But the posh git had actually slugged him instead of having Steve bust his skull open. That was personal, Mycroft was pissed as hell if he was willing to get his hands dirty.

 

"I have to admit, John, that I have been rather... disappointed in you of late. I had thought my previous actions had been enough to impart upon you what I was expecting from you... "

He mostly tuned out when Mycroft started listing off his crimes and the inconvenience he'd caused, all the favors the man had done him. While they were true of course, John realized that Mycroft couldn't scare him, he'd already come to terms with it. This was one of the most dangerous men in the world, and John had pissed him off and hurt his little brother. He was most likely going to just disappear off the face of the earth, Mycroft could probably arrange it so that there was no evidence he had ever even been born or existed except in the minds of the people who remembered him.

"I only asked you to do ONE thing John, do you remember what that is?"

"Protect Sherlock."

The response was almost automatic, after all, that's what he had been living for. Over three years, and all he could even think of doing anymore was running after the mad genius consulting detective and pulling his arse out of the fire, or away from the cliff, or shooting a serial killer trying to take him out. Sherlock would remember him, that was enough, even if Mycroft erased him as completely as he could, he would always exist for Sherlock, so it was fine, it was all fine.

"That's right." Mycroft nodded to Steve who still stood behind John, and grabbed his hair, forced his head back and pressed a vicious looking Bowie knife under his chin. Dead serious, steady, a trickle of blood trailing down his neck from the razor-sharp edge. Yep he was fucked.

"After all of my leniency and generosity, is this really the gratitude I receive in return John, Sherlocks' physical and sexual abuse? Given your complete and utter repetitive failures in this endeavor, perpetuated by your own two hands no less, can you give me one singular reason as to why I shouldn't kill you right now and leave your worthless corpse to rot?"

 

What, he wanted begging, pleading, excuses? That wasn't John's way. He doesn't run from his mistakes, he doesn't hide from the truth, he doesn't make excuses for his own faults or play pin the blame instead of taking responsibility. He's a regular, ordinary, flawed human being, and Mycroft is an idiot if he thinks John ever believed himself to be anything but that. Sherlock would be safe now, the dark beast inside him would never be able to hurt him again. Mycroft had succeeded where he had failed.

"Not really, no. You kill me and Sherlock's safe again, I get it. Just tell him I'm sorry and I love him. Sorry I let you down Mycroft." John closed his eyes, because the last thing he saw wasn't going to be Mycroft damnit, it was going to be Sherlock, that weekend a few months ago when he'd had the detective wrapped around his entire body as he'd taken him against the wall in his bedroom where Mrs. Hudson couldn't have heard. Sherlock had actually blushed that day, apparently there was this one spot he had been hitting just right and the stoic man had been blushing and whimpering and repeating John's name in a seductive mantra that had sounded like a desperate prayer. If it's possible to wait around after death, he'd do that, look after Sherlock until the mad git either did himself in or got himself killed.

'Sorry Sherlock, I love you, I'll still be there even if you can't see me.'

A pager began beeping uncontrollably and Mycroft immediately went for his belt. The fact his eyebrows rose momentarily was enough to worry John. The world was ending somewhere if Mycroft actually managed to look worried like that. A beat, then another, before a signal was given and John's hair was released and the knife removed.

"Good, because I despise pointless excuses and people too pathetic to take responsibility for their own actions."

The cuffs around his wrists were released and John hesitantly rubbed the circulation back into his hands, Steve wasn't the most careful person with handcuffs.

"Given the fact you understand the position you are in, you will accompany me for the foreseeable future. I have a few favors I need you to perform, nothing you would find distasteful Doctor, in fact I believe it will be work you will enjoy immensely. This is not a request, and arrangements will be made at the clinic for a substitute, though why you continue to try and work there is beyond me."

So had this all just been a power play or had the pager had something to do with this? With all the available technology, why did Mycroft even still HAVE a pager? And if that had been a bluff John never wanted to play the man at poker.

 

"Because it makes me feel normal Mycroft, it's the one part of my life that still makes sense and I have some control over."

"Really? Considering how little time you spend there, and how easily you are called away from it on short notice for one of Sherlocks' little whims, Doctor, I feel it safe to say you no longer enjoy feeling 'Normal' all that much anymore. In fact one might even say that you are using it as a crutch to try and once more protest against your love of adventure and action because somehow such an affinity would make you seem abnormal in your own eyes. There is no shame in enjoying what you are good at, and you are FAR too good at what you do to be buried in mediocrity and say it's what you truly want with any conviction, Doctor. My brother cured you of your first crutch, perhaps I shall be successful in fully ridding you of the second. Come Major Watson, the helicopter is waiting."

He wanted to protest, Sherlock was one thing, he wanted to follow after the mad git, Mycroft was another matter entirely, he wasn't some pet to call to heel when beckoned. But he also knew Mycroft may have just changed his mind about slitting his throat, probably to offer him a devil's deal in exchange for his life, but something had come up, something he could be useful in, something that might let him walk away without selling his soul, and so he warily followed after Mycroft, grabbing a few tissues to clean up the blood on his neck.

 

They were air lifted to a remote storage area out in the middle of nowhere, there hadn't even been any visible roads nearby. The huge shipping containers were piled up to four high, four long, and eight across. The blocks were intersected here and there with single rows of other containers instead of just all being stacked in rows. As if a giant had made a block city out of storage containers. After they landed in an open space designed to hide them from any outside observers, John realized it wasn't storage at all, it was a facility in disguise. The doors of the containers opened up on several levels, all facing in towards the helicopter, filled with armed special forces that were all aiming at them. The facility he could see through the doors was completely modern and VERY high-tech. Mycroft didn't even hesitate to get out with John right behind him, and walk straight towards one of the opened doors. The men all stood down at once and except for the ones at the door they were heading to, they all disappeared back into the structure and the doors closed once more. John was reminded of trapdoor spiders.

"Mr. Holmes Sir, it's an honor to see you." said the only unarmed officer there, a colonel by his mark of rank who actually saluted Mycroft.

"I was nearby. How long ago did you find him and what is his condition?"

"About an hour ago Sir. We called you the minute we got him back within communications range, but he's not doing well Sir, he's been severely tortured and dumped, so who knows what he may have said. We don't know yet if they managed to find the information, but we will soon."

"He's still alive and can probably tell us who took him if he survives. Also it's highly unlikely they would have left him alive if they had obtained the information or truly believed that he had it on him to begin with. They don't want to be the ones at fault for starting a war, they want to blame us for it. This is Dr. Watson, brief him and get him to the patient, he's cleared to know everything, notify me when you know more."

Mycroft left him there without another word and John was alone with the colonel.

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***WARNING* *WARNING* *WARNING***

***WARNING* *WARNING* *WARNING***

***WARNING* *WARNING* *WARNING***

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"Colonel William S. Davis MD, senior medical officer here."

"Major John H. Watson MD, Retired combat surgeon, personal bodyguard of Holmes the younger and apparent on call lackey for Holmes the elder."

"Wonderful to meet you, we were getting pretty desperate. This way. I'm afraid you'll find the entire government and armed forces of the United Kingdom is Mycroft Holmes' on call lackey. Six months ago I was a Lieutenant Colonel and team medic in the middle of the biggest firefight of my career on my third deployment to Afghanistan when two unmarked Apaches come out of nowhere and rained a barrage so heavy against the opposition that it was over in under fifteen seconds. They landed, one with immediate supplies and transport for my unit, the other with a woman who didn't even have a vest on and looked like she had just left a London office simply to take her lunch in the middle of a war zone that day. She just stood there completely nonplussed in the sands of Helmand in a pencil skirt and heels, texting on a blackberry, and informing me that I had just been reassigned. I thought I was dreaming until I found myself in Kabul boarding a private jet that made a non-stop flight back to London where a helicopter picked me up and brought me here. Weird has been par for the course ever since."

"Yeah, I doubt anything short of the entire planet losing electricity could shake that woman up. So, torture victim?"

"Yes, and I assume you were the closest surgeon who had clearance. Welcome to Iron Town. This really is an emergency, we have sterile facilities and some basic surgical equipment, but we only specialize in minor surgical placement and recovery of microchip data hidden in the subcutaneous tissues of our operatives, things that usually wouldn't even require full anesthesia most times. I don't think Mr. Holmes understands the fact that just because you are a medical doctor who works somewhere with an operating theater, doesn't mean that you and the facility are qualified or ready for any emergency that comes up, especially one like this. The medical staff here consists of myself, four lieutenants, and a second lieutenant they are all RN's. I'm the most highly trained here, since I am a doctor, but I'm locum work, emergency first aide, A&E at most, not trauma ward, and definitely not something this seriously advanced. We are a Military Black Ops information base, not a medical facility designed to handle this sort of thing, but we are the only secure base with any medical facilities that we could get him to immediately. We will assist you however we can, but guess who gets to beat back Death and order around a superior officer today?"

"Wonderful, and my command voice is nearly two years rusty. At least the conditions are better than a canvas tent in the desert, and I used to work bloody MIRACLES in those. What's his condition?"

"Probably grateful that he's unconscious, the poor bastard. I'm going to go with critical, since he's having trouble breathing on his own, he has a sucking chest wound, and we had to resuscitate him once already. He fell off our radar nearly two weeks ago then popped up again just a few hours back with his emergency GPS activated. We were the closest secure location, and I would seriously recommend transport if I already knew he probably wouldn't make it that long without some sort of stabilizing treatment first. Code name Peregrine, Aliases Robert Fletcher or Robert Blackhawk, given name so classified even I'm not allowed to know it, 35 year old male, 178 centimeters, 95 Kilos and in really bad shape. No known allergies, or pre-existing medical conditions, blood type A positive.

Suffering from severe head trauma, internal bleeding in abdomen, punctured right lung, five abdominal stab wounds, possible organ damage, multiple mild to moderate lacerations everywhere, but about twenty severe ones. Second degree fire and electrical burns over about twenty-five percent of his body, severe bruising over the entire body, kidney damage, dental torture that removed seven teeth, they ripped off every single fingernail and toenail and stuck sharpened bamboo into the quicks, a broken and dislocated jaw, broken right humerus and left ulna. Every finger, both wrists, both ankles and both tibias are definitely broken at least once, they went the extra mile for us and made sure the tibias broke through the skin, left one on the front, and the right through the medial side. The pelvis is shattered, and left femur is dislocated, looks like they tried to impale him or something.

And here's the kicker; copper plated steel nails, thirteen centimeters long, thirty-five of them total, either hammered manually or inserted with a nail gun into ball and socket joints and tendons to be used as probes for electrical torture, they all still have copper wiring wrapped around their heads. Four were hammered directly into the ball joints of the humerus on both sides of the shoulder, four through each of the femoral joints at the hip, two through his spine, one through the right popliteal fascia in the back of the knee, one through the left lateral knee, three through each foot, seven through the sacrum, and two through his scrotum, nailing his nuts between two pieces of copper sheeting to a wooden block. There is an estimated fifteen cm by two cm copper tube that was inserted in the penis like a catheter, and the flesh is melted to it with either second or third degree electrical burns. These bastards went for maximum pain and they sure as hell got it.

I'm no expert on bone and nerve damage, but even I can tell it will be a blessed miracle if he walks again. God only knows what else they did to him before they got down to hard torture. We could be dealing with complications from unknown drugs, infection, septicemia, starvation, and he was probably raped too. He's in the middle of receiving full body X-rays and a CT scan so we know what we are dealing with. We also put him on a two bag saline drip to combat severe dehydration and gave him an injection of morphine. It's all I knew that I could do without causing harm. We've staunched the bleeding as best we can, but he's a mess internally and I didn't want to close him up when it looked pretty obvious that he needs internal surgery. There's no way on gods green earth he escaped under his own power with these injuries, they dumped him to die or to be found, so we have to check him for tracers, as well as see if the information he was carrying is still intact.

I'm not going to lie to you Major, I've known this man a long time, even if I didn't know what all he was up to, hes been a very good friend and a mentor to me. He's been an operative for nearly seventeen years, and I can tell you with all honesty, he wouldn't want to continue on like this, in fact he has a DNR with my name as witness on it that we've already been ordered to ignore unless he goes brain dead. If you manage to, he's not going to see you saving him as a kindness, in fact it's probably down right cruel of us to make him try and live through the aftermath. And if his mind survives this intact after what he's been through I just might stop believing in the existence of any kind of benevolent God. But that's not what I'm allowed to want or pray for this time. He has information we desperately need, he's a good man, and he deserves a chance to make the ones who did this to him pay, and knowing him, he'd want to."

 

"Alright then, saving a patient who'll hate me for it. Feels like Afghanistan all over again. We'll see which one of us is more stubborn. I need clean scrubs, a nail brush, and nail clippers to start my surgical prep work. I also need the patient's vitals and the test results as soon as you have them. I'll do my own preliminary exam before I do a full surgical scrub, because if we can move him, I want to be able to determine how fast. And please tell me ONE of you is an anesthesiologist."

Davis shook his head. "We deal with locals, mild sedatives, and nitrous oxide for the most part. If someone needs to go under they bring a specialist and their own supplies. The closest hospital is a thirty minute flight out from here, and they don't have clearance. Mr. Holmes has the list of approved hospitals. We've got only the most basic supplies, and I can get more pretty quickly, but the thing is I really don't know what exactly we would need for this, this is way beyond my level of training, so you're the expert right now, and officially in charge unless Mr. Holmes says otherwise."

"Remind me to punch Mycroft when this is all over. Do you have oxygen, basic vitamins and minerals? Blood or plasma?"

"Oxygen yes he's already on it, yes common vitamins and minerals, as well as antibiotics, a full spectrum of inoculations and immunizations, steroids, some sodium pentothal, and phenobarbital. No on blood or plasma, but we have IV's, tubes, bags, and a centrifuge."

"Why in the hell do you have phenobarbital?"

"We use a one tenth diluted solution in our tranquilizer darts, useful to put a threat down for three or four hours if you need to transport him."

"Fetch it. I hate to use it but it's the best we've got right now, not like he isn't already going to feel like shit if he wakes up anyway. Also add a unit of potassium, magnesium, A, B and C vitamins, iron, and calcium to his drip, start him on a round of general antibiotics, and give him a tetanus shot, his system doesn't need another thing to fight right now.

Tell Mycroft I'm good but I am not God, if he wants me to save this guy I am going to need some fully trained help. If we can't transport him I want him to fly in a full surgical team and equipment. I can't be the only surgeon with clearance, I was just the closest, and if this man is going to have any kind of fighting chance he first needs to be given one."

 

John pulled off his jumper and pulled on the scrubs, washed and prepped his hands, and put on a mask and gloves. Fletcher was just being wheeled out of X-ray and John immediately did a full analysis. Head injury was definitely going to need a specialist, and except for the chest and stab wounds he was actually in pretty stable condition, the lacerations were all different ages, most had already clotted, internal bleeding was severe but his pulse was still strong, oxygen was supplementing and dear gods the guy might actually stand a shot if they could get him to an actual operating room because the nails had mostly cauterized their own wounds.

"DAVIS! I need a list of those hospitals NOW!"

He started randomly pointing to the medical staff around him.

"You, get me suction and a bladder, you sutures and needle, and as much gauze as you can carry. Who is the best with blood work?"

A young man raised his hand. "Trained phlebotomist Sir."

"Perfect, I want you to find a main vein and start a picc line, the more lumiens the better. Right arm would be ideal, but I'll take whatever I can get. Is anyone blood type A Positive or O negative?"

"I am type A Positive Sir" said a petite brunette with green eyes, one of the few people he hadn't given orders to yet.

"Are you clean? Not sick, or have any communicable diseases, or gotten a tattoo in the past year?"

"No sir, tested just last week, results clear."

"Wonderful." He turned to the one he had ordered to do the picc line. "I also want you to get a pint from her and get it here as fast as you can." He turned to the other woman in the group.

"I don't care how you do it but find anyone else who is type A Pos or O Neg that is clean and willing to donate even just a half pint. I need another three pints to have a chance of stopping this bleeding and stabilizing his BP. Everyone else, lets wheel him to the surgery room, cut off the rest of those clothes, clean him up as best you can so I can see what I am doing, and prop him higher off those nails with rolled towels. Support everything that isn't pierced, I want absolutely no pressure on any of them. Leave a 4-6 centimeter gap between every nail head and the table in case we have to resuscitate him again."

 

John was running back to the scrub room when he saw Mycroft in a small office typing on his computer. He flung open the door.

"Mycroft, what are the approved hospitals we can transport this guy to?"

"Royal London, St. George's, Broomfield-"

"Broomfield! I need transport there ready on my signal. Do you have my mobile?"

"It isn't secure-"

"Fuck your security, do you want me to save this man or not? Give me my bloody phone."

For reasons beyond his understanding Mycroft handed it over without another word.

John scrolled through the contacts and punched the call button on the one listed as BO. Two rings later there was a click.

"Hello?"

"Browning."

"Sig?"

"You still at Broomfield?"

"Yeah. You in the area? My shifts done in two hours if you want to grab a pint."

"I'll buy you a full steak dinner if you stay on and do a tandem with me for this. I have a crit coming to you airlift I need you on the roof with a trauma team and a fully stocked OR ready within the next hour. Tell either the Surgical Director or the highest uppity up you can find that full liability and expenses are being claimed and covered by Mycroft Holmes, that should keep them calm. The patient has head trauma, sucking chest wound, internal bleeding, multiple punctures, stabs, burns, electric, and blunt trauma. Starvation, dehydration, infection and drugs. You're going to need rib cutters, pliers, and a claw head hammer, ice, an electric bone saw, two full length leg halos, minimum eight units of A positive, casting materials, all the screws, bolts, and pins you can find, and probably every suture in the hospital, and gods just get everything in that room you can possibly fit into it and the strongest stomachs you can get to assist. we're going to need all of it."

"John what the fuck are you bringing me?"

"Someone trying to do a Six Squad Sunday all on his own, but he has a real shot if I can get help. He's a D and T BO looking at a minimum twelve hours of Emergency Surgery, and my orders are to save him no matter what. I'll be there as soon as I can get this chest wound stable. And get the best neurological surgeon you can find, orthopaedic surgeon too if you can manage it, and bribe them with whatever you have to in order to get them in that room as fast as possible, and I do mean ANYTHING. The window is small and we need all the miracle working help we can get."

John clicked the phone shut and handed it back to Mycroft who had his hand out waiting for it.

 

"D and T BO?"

"Detained and Tortured Black Ops. That was Mark Hamsfeld, he's a buddy of mine from Afghanistan and one of the best combat surgeons I've ever known, we worked tandems together for six months. His security clearance was level five before I even GOT to the war, so you shouldn't have a problem vetting him. I'll call you when Fletcher can be moved."

Six Squad Sunday was the worst day Mark and he had ever had working together. It was the year before he was invalided home. Four separate squads had come under direct attack, and two squads had an unfortunate encounter with landmines that day. The wounded were coming in not even an hour apart from each other, and they were the closest med station available within fifty clicks in any direction. They had only been able to save two of the thirty-five critically injured soldiers who had been transported in that day. They were short on supplies, people, transport, and worst of all, time. It was a complete no win situation and after that thirty-four hour nightmare shift, John had gotten drunk. Not just any drunk, but I-can't-even-move-let-alone-think-about-walking drunk. They had broken into Mark's private reserve and polished off three and a half large bottles of fine Irish whiskey together. John had a feeling they both would need a drink after this one too.

 

'Robert Fletcher' apparently wanted to live as much as everyone else wanted him to. He was stable enough for transport within thirty minutes and the chopper flew as fast as it could to Broomfield. Mark was waiting with a full team and even some of the most hardened nurses were looking rather green around the gills once they saw the extent of his injuries. John and Mark worked for twenty hours, with an assisting staff of ten and only taking two breaks a piece. It reminded him of the war, ignoring his own body in favor of saving the life before him.

Fletcher's heart stopped four times in the early stages from shock and blood loss but they revived him each time and kept working. Dr. Greenburg, their miracle neurosurgeon, showed up during hour four and saw the full damage as they were trying to repair shredded intestines, a punctured liver, and removing the irreparable kidney, now that the patient was able to be placed supine thanks to Dr. Wheaton the orthopaedic surgeon and two members of his fellowship team having finished pulling out the nails in the shoulders, spine, sacrum and hips, and now beginning to work on the ones from the waist down.

"I never thought a split cranium with multiple skull fractures, intracerebral hemorrhaging and bone shards in the brain matter would have ever been the lesser surgical job. You boys sure have your work cut out for you, if he lives this is a surgery for the history books, I hope you're recording it." Then set in on the head and brain surgery.

Of course they had been recording it, it was Mycroft, the worlds most thorough voyeur, there were probably multiple camera angles in full color with audio. That didn't mean anyone outside of a level ten security clearance would ever get to see it, especially fresh faced surgical students eager to learn.

 

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It took twenty-four hours total before the last of the eighteen hundred and thirty-two stitches was in. Fletcher was stable but would most likely never walk again, in fact he probably had no feeling at all from the chest down, maybe from below the navel if he was lucky. He'd be in traction for several weeks and had lost a kidney, five feet of intestines, a large chunk of his liver, his testicles, and half of his penis, But he was alive and breathing on his own, and neural scans showed that his brain was still functioning at a normal level. A full body CT showed that the data chip had survived against all odds and John extracted it himself from the medial bicep of the right arm. He handed it directly to Davis who had come along specifically for the retrieval process and was gone again just as quickly.

Cleaned and stitched and stable, the only thing left was to see if the man would wake up and retain his mind. Exhausted and weary, John Watson, Mark Hamsfeld, Carl Greenburg, Michael Wheaton and his fellows had truly done all they could. Robert Fletcher was a miracle case and had survived against some of the worst odds.

 

***SAFE* *SAFE* *SAFE***

***SAFE* *SAFE* *SAFE***

***SAFE* *SAFE* *SAFE***

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At his own insistence Mycroft had handed John a fresh suit, a huge strap of cash, and vehicle transport that John used to take the four of them along with Carl and Michael's wives Diane and Cecile down to Brentwood to treat them all to dinner and their own bottle of wine at Masons.

There was small talk and reminisces of the good old med school days before they realized they didn't know everything. They talked shop, and about relationships, Mark had been divorced for five years, and had apparently been dating this spitfire of a redhead named Natalie for the last eighteen months who loved nothing more than showing him off like he was the prize stallion in the stable, even though she was fourteen years younger than him and a classy executive that made her minions cower in fearful respect everyday. She was currently in Germany on business.

John told them about Sherlock, and how he was absolutely smitten with the man. As well as the fact he was a mad genius that took pleasure in tormenting the Met and the Yard by waving their own obliviousness in their faces.

They all marveled that their patient was still breathing, and Mark insisted they double date sometime, he wanted to see what Sherlock was like for himself if he'd managed to get 'Three Continents Watson' to settle down and be monogamous. If nothing else than to get together when there wasn't a dying man between them, maybe more dinners and drinks acting like normal blokes instead of super surgeons.

 

The extremely enjoyable company after the long day and the lovely meal he didn't have to dash away from right in the middle of, had John feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. It also had him missing his brilliant madman, and John finally realized what Mycroft had meant.

Normal for him was in the heart of a life or death situation, or smack dab in the middle of the frenzied fray and getting his hands dirty. He was a combat surgeon and a damn good one, and he thrived under pressure and adrenaline. A man was still breathing today because he had been up to his elbows in viscera doing surgery instead of treating another case of strep, or writing out another script for cough syrup, and just like with the cane, he couldn't go back to it now.

Mycroft obviously had some plan of occupying John's time in order to take him away from the clinic, in fact it would scare him if Mycroft ever DIDN'T have several plans waiting in the wings for whatever things he wanted done. And knowing how much Mycroft probably still wanted him to look after Sherlock, it was probably a damn interesting one that didn't take up too much time and wouldn't interfere with Sherlock's own mad schemes or schedule too badly. He wondered how long he could keep it from Mycroft though, that smarmy bastard would NEVER get the smirk off his face if he thought he had won so easily, and Sherlock would never forgive him if he gave in without a fight.

John sighed, Mycroft still had him on a total communications lockdown aside from that one phone call he'd allowed. John honestly wondered if it was more to punish John himself, or to torment Sherlock for some unknown petty reason. Neither answer would surprise him, but he hoped Sherlock was doing alright.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So Happy Yule/Winter Solstice to all of you, I hope a 7,000+ word chapter less than a week after my last posting counts as an acceptable gift to you, even if it might have been more Halloween appropriate with all the gory bits in it. I hope that you enjoy celebrating the wintertide festival of your choice with the people that you love and that you all have a safe and happy new year.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIVE! And so does this story, at least a bit. Sorry for the crazy delay but this story got super glue stuck. We aren't fully out of the woods yet, but I have managed to finish this one at least and am working on another. Please send all writers block destroyers my way. 
> 
> Also, when I mention football in this chapter, please note that I mean what the rest of the world calls football, and what we Americans call soccer. America why do you insist on doing things differently just so you can seem different? It only confuses those of us who live here when we have to go other places. Gah this is like that metric system thing, I'm never going to get it. Reply to comments at the end.

Sherlock threw the teacup against the wall, barely paying attention as it shattered against it with a high-pitched crash and the tea started creeping down the wallpaper. There was a momentary reminder that he still needed to do that experiment on all the different types of tea stains, before it was brushed aside as he stalked around the flat like an enraged and caged animal. Mycroft still had his phone off. Forty-seven calls, sixty-seven texts, not a single response. Mycroft had taken John, HIS JOHN, twenty-nine and a half hours ago and Sherlock had been stupid, so stupid and had allowed it, thinking Mycroft had meant to take him to Essex.

'Damage Control' he'd said, and Sherlock had remembered too late the one time that had included another person, a young woman named Shelly when he'd been in Uni, she'd been his supplier, and had been slightly less tedious than the rest of the droning chattel there so he didn't object to her giving him a discount if he let her stay so they could get high together.

She gave him bad stuff once, he'd been so sick from that hit, discovered later he nearly died, but while he was still half conscious, three 'police officers' came in and caught hold of her, because she was about to make a run for it. They had made it sound very official, but at the same time they had also given her a large shot of the same drugs he'd just taken, much larger than the one he himself had done, and she was much smaller than him. They dragged her out as if arresting her, and she never returned. Her belongings disappeared from her dorm the next day and her files held a very abrupt resignation from the program, citing family emergency as the only explanation. Shelly had told him she had been a ward of the state since she was five. There was no mention of her death, but Sherlock knew that she was dead, there was no antidote to combat the effects of what they had taken, and if a regular dose had nearly killed him... 

When he had questioned Mycroft his only response had been "Merely a bit of house keeping little brother, you know how I dislike you leaving your broken toys and experiments scattered about. Consider this damage control, before you go hurting yourself even more."

He had forgotten, in fact erased the memory until the moment the task force had entered to take John, and that's when he knew Mycroft had death on his mind. 'Only one place to take their wounded', he remembered too late. Their family's home had served as a fort and an army hospital during both world wars, and during World War Two the wounded had resided in the chapel, which also housed the family crypt. 

He had fought them, the ones determined to rip John away from him forever, their hands and faces covered, uniforms pristine, two with guns ready, the rest to obtain their target, and he was fighting so hard one of them had actually let his hand off the gun, come over, and knocked him out with a rag of chloroform and a shot of something very fast acting, most likely a large dose of antihistamine judging by the effects. Nothing long lasting or damaging to his system, meaning they weren't allowed to hurt him, so definitely Mycroft. John was long gone by the time he woke up, they had left through the back door, but knew him far too well, the alley all the way down to the street on both sides had been scrubbed, in fact it was nearly immaculately clean. No witnesses or tire tracks, no evidence of which direction they went, though seven men, six heavily armed, and possibly one other driver and a secondary guard, indicated a van or a large commercial vehicle, most likely with no rear windows. It would have been unmarked and inconspicuous.

Sherlock couldn't remember a time he had been more furious or had felt so utterly helpless. Part of him wanted to phone Lestrade, no matter how big of a blow to his ego it would have been, but the rest of him knew it would be pointless, and not because half of Scotland Yard were incompetent morons, though they were of course, it was simply the fact that it was Mycroft. Sherlock could have gone to Scotland Yard with videotape showing his brother abducting and murdering a man, presented the gun with his fingerprints in the victim's blood, found his DNA at the scene of the crime, and presented a signed confession and there still "wouldn't have been any evidence to support your wild claim against your brother". Mycroft had connections, hell he could probably blackmail the entire world into handing him the reins and letting him rule them all if he got it into his head to be an overlord instead of a manipulating bastard pulling all the strings from the background and pretending like he was no one special. You could assassinate the entire Royal family, The Prime Minister, all of Parliament and the House of Lords, and not even a day later all of Britain would still be ticking away like clockwork as if nothing had happened. Contrariwise, If someone ever got it into their heads to shoot a minor clerk in the British Government, Great Britain and half of the world would fall into utter chaos in less than twelve hours. Unless of course Mycroft had some sort of failsafe in place, and knowing Mycroft, he most likely did.

He had called the house in Essex and neither his eldest brother nor mother had any idea where Mycroft was. Sherlock was furious and terrified, and a full search of the city and his brothers usual haunts had revealed nothing. Then again Mycroft wasn't tied to the city nearly as much as Sherlock himself, Britain, yes, London no, chances were good that he was still somewhere in the territories because he disliked getting his hands dirty, but that was no indication that John was anywhere even remotely nearby him, and most likely nowhere near London anymore. This entire situation was unacceptably infuriating.

His phone rang and he dove for it, barely registering that the number was blocked before answering in the middle of the second ring. "This is low even for you, and it's none of your damned business anyway, now give him BACK! If you have harmed one hair on John's head I will dismember you personally Mycroft!"

"I told him it would be a bad idea to keep you on communications blackout, but Mycroft always seems to think he knows better, even when he doesn't."

Sherlock belatedly realized he had sank down to his knees in relief. John was alright, he was alive, he could keep breathing because John was still alive. "John..." it sounded far more choked up and scared than he would have liked, but gods he couldn't even begin to describe how scared he'd been.

"Yeah Sherlock, it's me. I wanted to let you know I was alright, especially after all of the dramatics. Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

“No, Mycroft would skin them alive if they hurt me, I'm actually surprised one of them knocked me out. You knicked his phone? I'm impressed. Where are you?”

“No I have barely even seen him since yesterday. He still has my mobile, so I'm using the car phone right now, though he's probably tracking that too, knowing Mycroft. I'm in Essex, spent a whole day patching up a member of his personal army, just had dinner, and now I'm going somewhere to crash into unconsciousness for at least the next ten hours, and I will personally shoot anyone in the head who tries to wake me before then. He wants me to accompany him around for a bit doing god only knows what, but I think somehow my working at the clinic has mortally offended him and he has made it his new personal mission to keep me up to my elbows in viscera until I'm terminated. Doubt it will take him long with how often I call off anyway. Will you be terribly cross with me if I just give in and resign so it's at least on my own terms and make this entire display of his pointless? How are you doing? How's the case? Any leads yet? And please tell me you have at least attempted to eat something today."

The case? Did John really think that he had given one single glance at the case when John had been missing and possibly dead at the hands of his own brother? He had been all over London searching for any possible lead about JOHN, not the mass murderer. And of course he hadn't eaten, he'd felt nauseous since he had woken up and John was gone. He had tried to make tea earlier so he could focus, but it had been wrong, all wrong because John hadn't been the one to make it, and then of course the cold tea had ended up tinting the wall. He'd have to replace the cup before John got back.

"I miss you, nothing new yet. I want to tell you that if you give in I will never forgive you, and to make the bastard work for it, but pointless works too. So go ahead, make him look like an idiot of you want to. And I promise I will eat later. I-I'm glad you're alright John."

"I'm fine Love, though one or both of us owes your brother a punch in the face for busting into the flat and pointing guns at us, so don't be too cross with me if I get to him first if the opportunity presents itself alright? I miss you too, and my old surgery partner wants to meet you, he's somehow gotten the misguided notion into his head that I am a loose and wild living man and therefore believes you must be something quite extraordinary, which you are of course, if you've managed to tame me and keep me monogamous."

"Tame you? Perish the thought, I would never even dream of it, you are at your best the way you are. I'd describe it more like having found a kindred spirit who keeps you so well satisfied that you aren't even tempted to look elsewhere. John, you could punch Mycroft a hundred times and I'd still encourage you to keep going."

John laughed and the rest of Sherlock's anxiety dissipated. There was no inflection of speech tone to indicate that John was hiding anything or being coerced in any fashion, and John was not a brilliant liar.

"Get back to work Love, and remember that eating and sleeping are necessary if inconvenient requirements for that 'transport' of yours which I am so inordinately fond of to work properly. I'll see if I can get Mycroft to surrender my mobile tomorrow so you can keep me updated on the case alright?"

"Alright. Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Sherlock, pleasant dreams."

Sherlock sat on the floor for several minutes after John had hung up, just breathing deeply, making sure the world had righted itself and was once more going in the proper direction. His phone chimed with a text a moment later, it was Lestrade informing him that the toxicology reports on the first two victims, both males, were done as well as the autopsies, and he had emailed him the file, photos, and catalog of evidence so far, as well as everything they had on all the victims so far.

Things finally clicked back into their proper order. John was alive and fine, Mycroft would soon be punched, and the game was definitely on. Very well then. He placed a quick delivery order for copious amounts of Chinese food which would provide him with leftovers for days. He was determined to eat every last bite of it if it would appease John. He owed him that much for what he'd put him through. He left the money with Mrs. Hudson, and asked her to bring it up when it arrived, then dumped the pot of cold tea that he couldn't bring himself to drink, and instead set about making coffee. He knew sleep would be a long way off if he did manage it tonight, but he had ignored his body for over 24 hours and it was beginning to show, so he prepared a small IV bag of his thinking solution of a range of B's, D, K, and E vitamins, added some Zinc, Calcium, Potassium, Magnesium, a little Iron, beta carotene, lutein, and some taurine, which he attached to a saline drip, then attached the IV lines to his inner bicep where it would mostly be out of the way and set the drip on low then popped a few ginkgo biloba, St. John's wort, echinacea, spirulina, chlorella, and fish oil capsules. There, now John couldn't say he wasn't taking care of himself. He set up the portable IV pole and got to work.

When he pulled up the report, they of course confirmed his assessment. Insulin, steroids, PCP, and THC were present in both victims and were the determined cause of death, both had been ruled as homicide. A small, shallow, crescent-shaped mark on the second victim, on the inner hip near the pubis caught his attention. It was from a fingernail.

He digitally circled the area and sent the picture back, telling them to check the area for DNA and fingerprints, and also to dust around the upper arms, throat, and hips. Also the fact that threads of silk fiber had been found on both of the victims clothes or hair was another fascinating clue, since there hadn't been any silk in the vicinity, so for it to be on both men was definitely significant, even if he didn't know what it meant yet. He also requested a rape kit be performed on both men and requested the same for all remaining victims as well, and asked if they could make the exams on victims number 6, 7, 9, 12, 18, and 22 their top priority. Something was off about all of the people in that room, and especially those six but he couldn't tell what just yet.

He took the photos of the scanned ID's and matched them with their crime scene photos and victim numbers, though only four victims had any background information so far, none of them the ones who had caught his attention, then collected the six people who were standing out to him.

Nathan Cornwall age 24 from Carlisle  
Anthony Jones age 26 from Lancaster  
Timothy MacDonald age 27 from Dublin  
Johnathan Mitchell age 35 from Manchester  
Margaret Wileston age 34 from Cambridge  
Amanda Addlesby age 20 from Kensington

The presence of five of those people in that room had honestly surprised him. Unless there had been several more accomplices than two, which would hint far further towards organized crime than a psychopath killer. But the organized crime type of killer wouldn't have made it so easy to find and identify the bodies or left all of the victims valuables alone when they could be so easily kept or sold for profit, or done the whatever it was that was still off, there was a piece either missing or added to this puzzle and whatever it was, it was important, and something a hired hit or criminal lackey would never do. If their killer was smaller, overweight, and physically weaker like he suspected, it would have been very difficult for him to intimidate one, let alone all five of them at one time without any restraint, guns or not.

Anthony Jones was obviously a body builder and very physical athlete, most likely rugby, possibly wrestling, too bulked for football, and he'd need more data before he could determine if he was just a vain showman who was compensating or if he actually had a spine to go along with those muscles. The lack of a fake or excessive tan or any signs of enhancers was promising. And even if he wasn't in the same league as the others he would have made a competent beta or gamma enforcer in this particular situation.

Nathan Cornwall and Timothy MacDonald had been in the military, both active duty on leave. Timothy was most likely Army or Marines if he had to guess, due to the presence of gun callouses. Nathan however was a Royal Marine Commando according to the dagger tattoo on his right bicep, having recently come back from a third tour in the middle east, the dates of the first two having been thoughtfully tattooed below the dagger.

Johnathan Mitchell was a fireman judging by the varying ages, shapes, and sizes of the burn scars he'd observed on arms and neck, and Margaret Wileston he was sure had been an active duty armed police officer. He knew that type, John was that type, especially in an emergency. These people were the very definition of 'take charge', the alpha protectors, the heroes or group leaders, the ones the others would have immediately looked up to in a crisis, the ones who kept their heads in bad situations, the ones who don't care if they got hurt if they were protecting others.

So collected in a group like that for several days in a bad situation with other people, especially women to protect, and given drugs that would have helped subdue the rational brain even more, allowing their base instincts to take over, they should have banded together and caused a great deal of trouble for their kidnappers as the days went on and the suffering increased. They could have possibly even overpowered their kidnappers without any trouble if there were five of them and only three gunmen. Yet they had been found scattered in different parts of the room without a defensive mark on them. It didn't make any sense!

It was basic animal instinct to seek out the strongest ones for protection, and it was something the primal brain was acutely tuned for even without conscious thought. Anyone could stand in a small crowd of people and with just a casual glance pick out the strongest and the weakest ones in the group, the longer you remained the better the distinctions would become until there was a distinct pecking order, no matter how loosely formed. Four people in that room had been trained to be the very protectors everyone else would have been looking for, and yet none of them had been spotted or began to form a group of their own? Why? They were already used to dangerous, life threatening situations. They would have been able to recognize that same spark in each other in seconds, and yet DAYS had gone by without them banding together? What was missing? It had to be something small but important.

The other person that had caught his attention, Amanda Addlesby, was the one that had also caught Lestrade's. Not only had a twenty year old girl gone missing from Kensington without someone coming down to the Yard with a camera crew screaming bloody murder about it and waving hundreds of thousands of pounds as an incentive for her immediate safe return, but she was also younger than all of the others by at least four years, and was one of the most mutilated. That reeked of being singled out, of it being far more personal with her than any of the others. He needed to know more about her immediately, why was she the one that had caught the killer's interest or ire, who was she or did she remind him of? She may have been the intended target all along, after all the best place to hide a single body is in with a group of other bodies who were all killed in the exact same way.

The takeout arrived and he distractedly grabbed a box and some chopsticks, not caring what it was and began eating out of the carton, completely missing Mrs. Hudson's terrified look at the portable IV. He poured himself another cup of coffee and lay on the sofa to think. How could the killers have immobilized the key four without any retaliation, defensive marks, or signs of restraint? What could they have done to take all of them down at once without a fight? No evidence of explosives or excessive torture, nothing indicating anything besides acute forced starvation through drugs and the symptoms thereof. What was he missing?

He threw open the doors of his mind palace and set his focus on every form of restraint and coercion he knew, searching for anything that could subdue those four beyond retaliation even though it ensured the deaths of not only themselves but all the other people they would have felt a need to protect.

The coffee was cold and the chow mein was starting to dry out when he returned, no closer to an answer that would satisfy him. The IV was long since done and he carefully removed the line and placed a plaster over the entry point. It was dawn, probably about five or six in the morning. At a dead end for the moment he put the Chinese away and decided to go to bed and keep his promise to John to get some sleep. He went to shut his laptop and stopped dead.

Nathan Cornwall's crime scene pictures were up and the added puzzle piece finally clicked. A twenty-four year old military man obviously just back on leave, having been on three tours in the middle east, was wearing a polo with the Oxford University logo on it.

Only twenty-four, been in the military long enough to not only be a fully trained commando but also deployed as such to the middle east three times, the first time three years ago for a full six months, then again a year after that for nine months, and this current tour had still been ongoing before his untimely end. Yet he'd found the time and had also had the money to go to Oxford, whose lowest degree of study was a bachelor's degree which some people could complete in 3-4 years if you went for the right course of study, were there full time and worked yourself to near exhaustion? Most people on average needed about 5-6 years for their bachelors degrees just because they needed all of their classes to line up right in their schedules. Even if he'd graduated early at sixteen, that would have still put him at twenty-one at the time of graduation, and he was about to be on his second tour by then, not finishing his education and joining up.

And why would someone who'd had the brains and ability to put themselves through Oxford immediately turn around and risk their necks on the front lines of a war instead of putting their hard won education to any kind of good use? It made absolutely no sense. Not to mention, this was a man enjoying his military life to the point he not only pushed himself to join the Commandos, but also tattooed his deployments into his skin for posterity. This man would have stayed in the military until it killed him, he was invalided, or he'd climbed as high as he could up the officer's ladder and stayed there until he died. The man had never set foot in Oxford in his life. Welbeck or Commando Training Centre Royal Marines, he would absolutely believe, but definitely NOT Oxford.

Therefore that wasn't his polo, and those weren't his clothes. Taking a look at all the other victims it began making sense. The fit was wrong, the styles, the fabrics, the wear, everything. Not a single one of them was wearing their own clothes he realized, and the conflicting pieces came together. They were all 'costumes' in a sense, each highly identifiable if you knew what to look for. A mother, a father, five 'relatives', three professors, six students, four professionals, possibly co-workers, four managers or bosses, and finally the girl.

The murderer was re-enacting something, like a macabre and demented play that slotted his victims into the roles of either people who had tormented him in the past, people he had already killed and wanted to kill again, or possibly even both. He dialed Lestrade, grabbed his coat and laptop and rushed out the door. It was a mistake to have gone along with Lestrade's request of not doing more than finding an exact cause of death the first time, he would have caught that the first time if they had given him longer at the scene and then Anderson had distracted him completely. The autopsies and toxicology reports would take too long, he needed to see all the bodies and the exact layout of the crime scene again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had an Anon review last time that said the chapter was rushed and sloppy, and they would rather I take my time with my writing and that they were willing to wait a month for a good post instead of a weekend for a bad one. It also included a thinly veiled threat of "I'll keep reading, but don't disappoint me" at the end, which I find highly amusing all on its own since I have never once written with the audience in mind, nor do I ever intend to. 
> 
> I write for myself because I love to, and because I like to get my ideas down and share them after so many other writers have done the same for me. I enjoy feedback, especially positive, (what writer doesn't) but I don't care one whit if the reader actually likes a story I've written or not, since reading tastes are all highly different and I don't presume for a moment that I can please everyone. The only one I ever concern myself with disappointing is myself, and the only way for me to do that is to not write at all. I only post when I am satisfied with a chapter, and trust me I am a far harsher critic of my own work than anyone else can ever be. 
> 
> The funny thing is these chapters up until now were all finished last year, I've just been polishing them up from their original rough draft state off of the kink meme. And I don't care HOW short of a time it might have been between updates, I NEVER rush. The last one I spent five days making all pretty, fleshing out some parts, adding details, fixing continuity errors and writing an additional 1,200 words to the chapter as well. But the really amusing thing to me is that chapter 11 DID take me a month to write, it's the most heavily researched chapter I've done, which is why it was so much longer and more detailed than any of the others. The previous ones had mostly all been done in a week or less and got a LOT less attention from me for the polishing up stage because they were so much shorter. Amused writer is amused.
> 
> I also had one from someone only going by M and the grammar and sentence structure was so bad I had to read through it 5 times before I even caught half a clue of what they were trying to say to me, but even though they made it pretty clear they won't be continuing with this story, and they are probably just a troll (Their wanton butchering of the English language certainly suggests so) I felt the need to reply anyway. 
> 
> Dear M, Sorry you don't like the fact that John said 'gods' instead of 'God'. And FYI it has nothing to do with me being narcissistic and trying to insert myself into my character, and stand out as being non-christian/ pagan/ 'look at me I'm a special snowflake!' or whatever. I intentionally use it in most of my writing so that I am not singling out a particular deity of anyone's faith in order to be respectful of people, and it tends to be less harsh of an expression. Not to mention a lot of people are polytheistic, not just pagans, do your research. So I'm sorry that's what you are using as a basis to leave this story over, my suggestion is to not make assumptions about the author's intentions, and also don't assume you know someone based on one word you read out of context in a work of fanfiction, it's an insult to your own intelligence, not mine.
> 
> Too all anon reviewers, I don't mind if you want to stay anonymous for whatever reason you feel you need to, if I did I wouldn't accept anon reviews. But when you review, if you are going to harshly criticize, then at least be willing to admit that it is you so you don't look like a troll. Own your words! Be proud of your opinions, and don't be afraid to stand up and be counted apart from the mass of anons.   
> If you truly don't like my story I am not going to force you to read it, or beg you to stay, or change the story to suit your tastes. It's MY story and I am going to write it how I choose. There are a million other fics out there for you to read, go find one you like better and good reading to you. That is all.


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